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LOS  ANGELES 


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SPRING  DAYS 


Volume  IV 


THE   CARRA  EDITION 

THE  COLLECTED  WORKS  OP 

GEORGE   MOORE 


"v.    .A 

#'■' 

SPRING  DAYS 

Gl ORGE  MOORE 


Carta  Edition 


3flCK>M   3DR03D 

hOm  ANffil^1*ftJl^Trl'i^v;fJfEW  YORK 

1922 


GEORGE    MOORE 

I' mill   II   skilrli   hii  ./.    />'.    YkiIk 
111  ihi  riillfrtion  <if  .Inhu  <Juhiu.  Es,f. 


SPRING  DAYS 

BY 

GEORGE  MOORE 


Carra  Edition 


PRINTED  FOR  SUBSCRIBERS  ONLY  BY 

BONI  AND  LIVERIGHT,  Inc.,  NEW  YORK 

1922 


SPRING  DAYS 

(Carra  Edition) 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


This  edition  consists  of  1000  numbered  sets 
of  twenty-oTie  volumes  each.  The  first  vol- 
ume is  numbered,  and  signed  by  the  author. 


College 
JLibrary 


SOfO 


PREFACE 


WHEN  Henry  Vizetelly,  that  admirable  scholar,  his- 
torian, and  jonrnalist,  was  sent  to  prison  for  publishing 
Zola's  novels  mine  were  taken  over  by  Walter  Scott, 
and  all  were  reprinted  except  "  Spring  Days."  This 
book  was  omitted  from  the  list  of  my  acknowledged  works, 
for  public  and  private  criticism  had  shown  it  no  mercy; 
and  I  had  lost  faith  in  it.  All  the  welcome  it  had  gotten 
were  a  few  contemptuous  paragraphs  scattered  through 
the  Press,  and  an  insolent  article  in  The  Academy,  which 
I  did  not  see,  but  of  which  I  was  notified  by  a  friend  in 
the  Strand  at  the  corner  of  Wellington  Street. 

"  Was  the  article  a  long  one  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  they  thought  your  book  worth 
slashing.  All  I  can  tell  you  is  that  if  any  book  of  mine 
had  been  spoken  of  in  that  way  I  should  never  write 
another," 

I  left  my  friend,  hoping  that  the  number  of  The  Acad- 
emy would  not  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  editor  of  the 
great  London  review,  to  whom  I  had  dedicated  the  book 
after  a  night  spent  listening  to  him  quoting  from  the 
classics,  Greek,  English,  and  Latin.  "  A  very  poor  testi- 
mony, one  which  he  won't  thank  me  for,"  I  muttered,  and 
stopped  before  St.  Clement  Danes  to  think  what  kind 
of  letter  he  would  write  to  me.  But  he  did  not  even 
acknowledge  through  his  secretary  the  copy  I  sent  him, 
and  I  accepted  the  rebuflf  without  resentment,  arguing 
that  the  fault  was  mine.  "  The  proofs  should  have  been 
submitted  to  him,  but  the  printers  were  calling  for  them ! 
There's  no  going  back;   the  mischief  is  done/'   and   I 

vii 


f'-.-tii  j>  <i  '.(.V  n  iJt 


yui 

waited,  putting  my  trust  in  time,  which  blots  out  all  un- 
fortunate things,  "  even  dedications,"  I  said. 

Three  months  later,  on  opening  my  door  one  day,  I 
found  him  standing  with  a  common  friend  on  the  landing. 
I  remember  wondering  what  his  reason  was  for  bringing 
the  friend,  whether  he  had  come  as  a  sort  of  chaperon 
or  witness.  He  left  us  after  a  few  minutes,  and  I  sat 
watching  the  great  man  of  my  imagination,  asking  myself 
if  he  were  going  to  speak  of  "  Spring  Days,"  hoping 
that  he  would  avoid  the  painful  subject.  The  plot  and 
the  characters  of  my  new  book  might  please  him.  If  he 
would  only  allow  me  to  speak  about  it  he  might  be  per- 
suaded to  accept  a  second  dedication  as  some  atonement 
for  the  first. 

"  You  were  kind  enough  to  dedicate  your  novel " 

"'Spring  Days'.?" 

"  Yes,  '  Spring  Days.'  I  know  that  you  wished  to  pay 
me  a  compliment,  and  if  I  didn't  write  before  it  was 
because " 

"Was  it  so  very  bad?" 

A  butty  little  man  raised  Oriental  eyes  and  square 
hands  in  protest. 

"  You  have  written  other  books,"  he  said,  and  proposed 
that  we  should  go  out  together  and  walk  in  the  Strand. 

"  Yes,  '  The  Confessions  of  a  Young  Man '  was  much 
liked  here  and  in  France.  Will  you  let  me  give  it  to 
you?"  We  stopped  at  a  book  shop.  "It  will  please 
you  and  help  you  to  forget  *  Spring  Days.*  "  He  smiled. 
"  Never  mention  that  book  again,"  I  added.  "  I  wonder 
how  I  could  have  written  it." 

We  were  in  a  hansom;  he  turned  his  head  and  looked 
at  me  without  attempting  to  answer  my  question;  and 
from  that  day  till  six  months  ago  my  impulse  was  to 
destroy  every  copy  that  came  my  way.  A  copy  of 
"  Spring  Days  "  excited  in  me  an  uncontrollable  desire 
cf  theft,  and  whenever  I  caught  sight  of  one  in  a  friend's 


house  I  put  it  in  my  pocket  without  giving  a  thought  to 
the  inconvenience  that  the  larceny  might  cause;  the 
Thames  received  it  and  I  returned  home  congratulating 
myself  that  there  was  one  copy  less  in  the  world  of 
"  Spring  Days." 

When  the  Boer  War  drove  me  out  of  London  I  said: 
"  Dublin  doesn't  contain  a  copy  of  that  book ;  "  and  for 
nearly  eight  years  I  was  left  in  peace,  only  Edward  Mar- 
tyn  teasing  me,  saying  that  one  of  these  days  he  must 
read  the  book. 

"  R always  says,  '  I  like  "  Spring  Days."  '  " 

"Insolent  little  ass,"  I  answered,  "I'll  cut  him  dead 
when  we  meet  again." 

But  Edward  was  not  joking  as  I  thought  he  was,  and 
some  time  afterwards  he  told  me  that  after  a  good  deal 
of  advertising  he  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  a  copy  of 
"  Spring  Days."  The  moment  he  left  the  room  I 
searched  the  table  and  bookcase  for  it,  but  he  kept  it  at 
Tillyra,  else  it  would  have  gone  into  the  Liffey,  which 
receives  all  things. 

"  My  dear  George,  I  like  the  book  better  than  any  of 
your  novels,"  he  said  one  day  on  his  return  from  Galway. 
"  It  is  the  most  original,  it  is  like  no  other  novel,  and 
that  is  why  people  didn't  understand  it." 

Of  course  it  was  impossible  to  quarrel  with  dear  Ed- 
ward, but  I  wondered  if  I  ever  should  find  pleasure  in 
speaking  to  him  again;  and  when  A.  E.  told  me  a  few 
weeks  later  that  he  had  come  upon  a  novel  of  mine  which 
he  had  never  read  before — "  '  Spring  Days,'  "  I  said. 

"  Edward  gave  it  to  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  I  haven't  seen  him  for  many 
months." 

"  The  worst  book  I  ever  wrote."  A.  E.  did  not  answer. 
"What  do  you  think  of  it?  "  To  my  surprise  I  foimd 
him  of  the  same  opinion  as  Edward. 

"  My  dear  A.  E.,  you  know  how  I  rely  on  your  judg- 


ment.  For  twenty-five  years  I  have  refused  to  allow 
this  book  to  be  reprinted.     Shall  I  relent  ?  " 

A.  E.  did  not  seem  to  think  the  book  unworthy  of  me, 
and  pressed  me  to  read  it. 

"  I'll  lend  you  my  copy." 

I  received  it  next  day,  but  returned  it  to  him  unread, 
my  courage  having  failed  me  at  the  last  moment. 

A  few  months  later  I  met  Richard  Best,  one  of  the 
librarians  at  the  National  Library.  He  had  just  re- 
turned from  his  holidays;  he  had  been  spending  them  in 
Wales  for  the  sake  of  the  language. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said,  "  I  came  across  an  old  novel 
of  yours — *  Spring  Days.'  " 

"You  didn't  like  it.?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  liked  it  as  well,  if  not  better,  than 
any  novel  you  have  written.  It  is  so  entirely  original. 
My  wife  ...  I  think  you  value  her  opinion " 

"She  liked  it?" 

"  Come  home  with  me,  and  she'll  tell  you  how  it  struck 
her." 

"  I  will,  on  one  condition,  that  you  don't  mention  that 
you  spoke  to  me  about  the  book." 

Best  promised,  and  we  had  not  been  many  minutes  in 
the  house  before  Mrs.  Best  interrupted  my  remarks  about 
the  weather  to  tell  me  what  she  thought  of  "  Spring 
Days." 

"  The  matter  is  important.  Sooner  or  later  I  shall 
hare  to  think  about  a  collected  edition.  Is  it  to  be 
included  ?  " 

Mrs.  Best,  like  A.  E.,  offered  to  lend  me  her  copy,  but 
I  could  not  bring  myself  to  accept  it,  and  escaped  from 
the  book  till  I  came  to  live  in  London.  Then  Fate 
thrust  it  into  my  hands,  the  means  employed  being  a 
woman  to  whom  I  had  written  for  "  Impressions  and 
Opinions."  She  had  lost  her  copy;  there  was,  however, 
an  old  book  of  mine  which  she  had  never  heard  me  speak 


of — "  Spring  Days  " — and  which,  etc.,  she  was  sending 
me  the  book. 

"  Omens  are  omens,"  I  muttered,  "  and  there's  no  use 
kicking  against  the  pricks  eternally,"  and  cutting  the 
string  of  the  parcel  I  sat  down  to  read  a  novel  which  I 
had  kept  so  resolutely  out  of  my  mind  for  twenty-five 
years,  that  all  I  remembered  of  its  story  and  characters 
was  an  old  gentleman  who  lived  in  a  suburb,  and  whose 
daughters  were  a  great  source  of  trouble  to  him.  I  met 
the  style  of  the  narrative  as  I  might  that  of  an  original 
writer  whose  works  I  was  unacquainted  with.  There 
was  a  zest  in  it,  and  I  read  on  and  on;  I  must  have  read 
for  nearly  two  hours,  which  is  a  long  read  for  me,  laying 
the  book  aside  from  time  to  time,  so  that  I  might  reflect 
at  my  ease  on  the  tenacity  with  which  it  had  clung  to 
existence.  Every  effort  had  been  made  to  drown  it; 
again  and  again  it  had  been  flung  into  the  river,  literally 
and  metaphorically,  but  it  had  managed  to  swim  ashore 
like  a  cat.  It  would  seem  that  some  books  have  nine 
hundred  and  ninety  and  nine  lives,  and  God  knows  how 
long  my  meditation  might  have  lasted  if  the  front  door 
bell  had  not  rung. 

"  Are  you  at  home,  sir,  to  Mr. ?  " 

"  Yes." 

There  is  time  for  one  word  more,  dear  reader,  and 
whilst  my  visitor  lays  his  hat  and  coat  on  the  table  in 
the  passage  I  will  beseech  you  not  to  look  forward  to  a 
sentimental  story ;  "  Spring  Days  "  is  as  free  from  senti- 
ment or  morals  as  Daphnis  and  Chloe. 

G.  M. 


SPRING  DAYS 


CHAP.  I. 

"  MISS,  I'U  have  his  blood;  I  wiU,  miss,  I  wiU." 

"  For  goodness'  sake,  cook,  go  back  to  your  kitchen ; 
put  that  dreadful  pair  of  boots  under  your  apron." 

"  No,  miss ;  I'll  be  revenged.     He  has  insulted  me." 

"  You  can't  be  revenged  now,  cook ;  you  see  he  has 
shut  himself  in;  you  had  better  go  back  to  your  kitchen." 

The  groom,  who  was  washing  the  carriage,  stood,  mop 
in  hand,  grinning,  appreciating  the  discomfiture  of  the 
coachman,  who  was  paying  the  penalty  of  his  joke. 

"  Cook,  if  you  don't  go  back  to  your  kitchen  instantly, 
I'll  give  you  notice.  It  is  shameful — ^think  what  a  scan- 
dal you  are  making  in  the  stable-yard.  Go  back  to  your 
kitchen — I  order  you.  It  is  half-past  six,  go  and  attend 
to  your  master's  dinner." 

"  He  has  insulted  me,  he  has  insulted  me.  I'll  have 
your  blood ! "  she  cried,  battering  at  the  door.  The 
rattling  of  chains  was  heard  as  the  horses  turned  their 
heads. 

"  Put  those  boots  under  your  apron,  cook;  go  back  to 
your  kitchen,  do  as  I  tell  you." 

The  woman  retreated,  Maggie  following.  At  intervals 
there  were  stoppages,  and  cook  re-stated  her  desire  to 
have  the  coachman's  blood.  Maggie  did  not  attempt  to 
argue  with  her,  but  sternly  repeated  her  order  to  go  back 
to  her  kitchen,  and  to  conceal  the  old  boots  under  her 
apron. 

"What  business  had  he  to  rummage  in  my  box,  inter- 

1 


fering  with  my  things;  he  put  them  all  along  the  kitchen 
table;  he  did  it  because  I  told  you^  miss^  that  he  was 
carrying  on  with  the  kitchenmaid.  He  goes  with  her 
every  evening  into  the  wood  shed^  and  a  married  man, 
too!     I  wouldn't  be  his  poor  wife." 

"  Go  back  to  your  kitchen,  cook;  do  as  I  tell  you." 

With  muttered  threats  cook  entered  the  house,  and 
commanded  the  kitchenmaid  to  interfere  no  more  with 
the  oven,  but  to  attend  to  her  saucepans. 

"  What  a  violent  woman,"  thought  Maggie,  "  horrid 
woman.  I  am  sure  she's  Irish.  I'll  get  rid  of  her  as 
soon  as  I  can.  The  place  is  filthy,  but  I  daren't  speak 
to  her  now.     She's  stirring  the  saucepan  with  her  finger." 

At  that  moment  quick  steps  were  heard  coming  down 
the  corridor,  and  Sally  entered. 

"  Cook,  cook,  I  want  you  to  put  back  the  dinner  half 
an  hour.    I  have  to  go  down  the  town." 

"  O  Sally,  I  beg  of  you,  what  will  father  say  ?  " 

"  Father  isn't  everybody.  I  daresay  the  train  will  be 
a  little  late;  it  often  is.  He  won't  know  anything  about 
it,  that  is  if  you  don't  tell  him." 

"What  do  you  want  to  go  down  the  town  for?  " 

"  Never  you  mind.     I  don't  ask  you  what  you  do." 

"  You  want  to  go  down  the  slonk,"  whispered  Maggie. 

The  cook  stopped  stirring  the  saucepan,  and  the 
kitchenmaid  stood  listening  greedily. 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind,"  Sally  answered  defiantly. 
"  You're  always  trying  to  get  up  something  against  me. 
Cook,  will  you  keep  back  the  dinner  twenty  minutes  ?  " 

"  Cook,  I  forbid  you.     I'm  mistress  here." 

"  How  dare  you  insult  me  before  the  servants !  Grace 
is  mistress  here,  if  it  comes  to  that." 

"  Grace  has  given  me  over  the  housekeeping.  I  am 
mistress  when  she  is  too  unwell  to  attend  to  it." 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort.  Grace  is  the  eldest,  I  would 
give  way  to  her,  but  I'm  not  going  to  give  way  to  you. 


Cookj  the  dinner  won't  be  ready  for  another  half  hour^ 
wiU  it?" 

"  I  don't  know  when  the  dinner  will  be  ready,  and  I 
don't  care." 

"  It  is  a  quarter  to  seven  now,  dinner  won't  be  ready 
before  seven,  will  it,  cook?  Keep  it  back  a  bit.  Now 
I  must  be  off." 

And,  as  Maggie  expected,  Sally  ran  past  the  glass 
houses  and  the  pear  and  apple  trees,  for  there  was  at 
the  end  of  the  vegetable  garden  a  door  in  the  brick  wall 
that  enclosed  the  manor  house.  It  was  used  by  the 
gardeners,  and  it  communicated  with  a  path  leading 
through  some  corn  and  grass  land  to  the  high  road. 
There  were  five  acres  of  land  attached  to  the  manor  house, 
tennis  lawn,  shady  walks,  flower  garden,  kitchen  garden, 
stables,  and  coach  house  at  the  back,  and  all  this  spoke 
in  somewhat  glaring  fashion  the  wealth  and  ease  of  a 
rich  city  merchant. 

"  There  she  goes,"  thought  Maggie,  flaimting  her  head. 
"What  a  fool  she  is  to  bully  father  instead  of  humour- 
ing him.  We  shall  never  hear  the  end  of  this.  His 
dinner  put  back  so  that  she  may  continue  her  flirtation 
with  Meason!  I  shall  have  to  tell  the  truth.  Why 
should  I  tell  a  lie?" 

"  Please,  miss,"  said  the  butler  as  Maggie  passed 
through  the  baize  door,  "  I  think  it  right  to  tell  you 
about  cook.  We  find  it  very  hard  to  put  up  with  her 
in  the  servants'  hall.  She  is  a  very  violent-tempered 
woman;  nor  can  I  say  much  for  her  in  other  respects. 
Last  week  she  sold  twenty  pounds  of  dripping,  and  it 
wasn't  all  dripping,  miss,  it  was  for  the  most  part 
butter." 

"  John,  I  really  can't  listen  to  any  more  stories  about 
cook.    Has  the  quarter  to  seven  come  in  yet?  " 

"  I  haven't  seen  it  pass,  miss,  but  I  saw  Mr.  Willy 
coming  up  the  drive  a  minute  ago." 


Willy  entered,  and  she  turned  to  him  and  said: 
"  Where  have  you  been  to,  Willy?  " 

"Brighton.     Has  father  come  in  yet?" 

"  No.     You  came  by  the  tramcar  ?  " 

"Yes." 

With  shoulders  set  well  back  and  toes  turned  out,  Willy 
came  along  the  passage.  His  manner  was  full  of  de- 
liberation, and  he  carried  a  small  brown  paper  parcel 
under  his  arm  as  if  it  were  a  sword  of  state.  Maggie 
followed  him  up  the  steep  and  vulgarly  carpeted  staircase 
that  branched  into  the  various  passages  forming  the 
upper  part  of  the  house.  Willy's  room  was  precise  and 
grave,  and  there  everything  was  held  under  lock  and  key. 
He  put  the  brown  paper  parcel  on  the  table;  he  took  off 
his  coat  and  laid  it  on  the  bed,  heaving,  at  the  same  time, 
a  sigh. 

"  Did  you  notice  if  the  quarter  to  seven  has  been  sig- 
nalled?" 

"  Yes,  but  don't  keep  on  worrying;  the  train  is  coming 
along  the  embankment." 

"  Then  there  will  be  a  row  to-night." 

"Why?" 

"  Sally  told  the  cook  to  keep  the  dinner  back;  she  has 
gone  down  the  slonk  to  speak  to  Meason." 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  cook  that  she  must  take  her 
orders  from  you  and  no  one  else  ?  " 

"  So  I  did,  but  Sally  said  I  was  no  more  mistress  here 
than  she  was.  I  said  Grace  had  given  me  charge  of  the 
house,  when  she  could  not  attend  to  it;  but  Sally  will 
listen  to  no  one,  she'll  drive  father  out  of  his  mind. 
There's  no  one  he  hates  like  the  Measons." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  Grace  ?     Where  is  she  ?  " 

"  She's  in  her  room,  lying  on  the  bed  crying.  She 
says  she  wants  to  die ;  she  says  that  she  doesn't  care  what 
becomes  of  her.  She'll  never  care  for  another  man,  and 
father  will  not  give  his  consent.     What's-his-name  has 


nothing — only  a  small  allowance;  he'll  never  have  any- 
more, he  isn't  a  working  man.  I  know  father,  he'll 
never  hear  of  any  one  who  is  not  a  working  man.  I  wish 
you'd  speak  to  her." 

"I've  quite  enough  to  do  with  my  own  affairs;  I've 
had  bad  luck  enough  as  it  is,  without  running  into  new 
difficulties  of  my  own  accord." 

"  If  she  refuses  Berkins,  father'U  never  get  over  it.  I 
wish  you  would  speak  to  her." 

"  No,  don't  ask  me.  I  never  meddle  in  other  people's 
affairs.  I've  had  trouble  enough.  Now  I  want  to 
dress." 

When  Maggie  went  downstairs,  she  found  her  father 
in  the  drawing-room. 

"  The  train  was  a  little  late  to-night.  Has  Willy 
come  back  from  Brighton?  " 

"Yes,  father." 

"  I've  been  looking  over  his  accounts  and  I  find  he 
has  lost  nearly  two  thousand  pounds  in  Bond  Street,  and 
I  don't  think  he  is  doing  any  good  with  that  agency  in 
Brighton.  I  never  approved  of  one  or  the  other.  I 
approve  of  nothing  but  legitimate  City  business.  Shops 
in  the  West  End !  mere  gambling.     Where  is  Grace }  " 

"  She's  in  her  room." 

"  In  her  room  ?  I  suppose  she  hasn't  left  it  all  day  ? 
This  is  very  terrible.  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with 
you.  Since  your  poor  mother  died  my  life  has  been 
nothing  but  trouble  and  vexation.  I  can't  manage  you, 
you  are  too  strong  for  me.  So  she  hasn't  left  her  room; 
crying  her  eyes  out,  because  I  won't  consent  to  her  mar- 
rying a  penniless  young  officer !  But  I  will  not  squander 
my  money.  I  made  it  all  myself,  by  my  own  industry, 
and  I  refuse  to  keep  young  fellows  in  idleness." 

"  I  don't  give  you  any  trouble,  father." 

"  You  are  the  best,  Maggie,  but  you  encourage  your 


6 

sister  Sally.  I  hear  that  you,  too,  were  seen  walking 
with  young  Meason." 

"  It  is  not  true,  I  assure  you,  father.  I  met  him  as  I 
was  going  to  the  post-oflSce.  I  said,  '  How  do  you  do."*  ' 
and  I  passed  on." 

"Where  is  SaUy?" 

"  She  went  out  a  few  minutes  ago." 

"Didn't  she  know  the  time.''  She  ought  to  be  dress- 
ing for  dinner.     Do  you  know  where  she's  gone.^" 

"  I  think  she  went  down  the  slonk." 

His  children  had  inherited  his  straight,  sharp  features 
and  his  small,  black,  vivid  eyes.  Their  hair  was  of 
various  hues  of  black.  Maggie's  was  raven  black  and 
glossy;  Sally's  was  coarse  and  of  a  hue  like  black-lead; 
Grace's  was  abundant  and  relieved  with  sooty  shades; 
Willy's  hair  was  brown.  He  was  the  fair  one  of  the 
family,  and  his  hair  was  always  closely  cut  in  military 
fashion,  and  he  wore  a  long  flowing  military  moustache 
with  a  tinge  of  red  in  it.  His  father  and  he  were  built 
on  the  same  lines — long,  spare  bodies,  short  necks  and 
legs,  and  short,  spare  arms,  and  if  the  father's  white  hair 
were  dyed  the  years  that  separated  him  from  his  son 
would  disappear,  for  although  the  son  had  only  just 
turned  thirty,  he  was  middle-aged  in  face  and  feeling. 

Sally  and  Grace  were  both  thickly  built,  the  latter  a 
little  inclined  to  fat.  Maggie  was  thin  and  elegantly 
angular,  and  often  stood  in  picturesque  attitudes;  she 
stood  in  one  now,  with  her  hands  linked  behind  her  back, 
and  she  watched  her  father,  and  her  look  was  subtle  and 
insinuating. 

"  When  I  came  here,"  he  said,  speaking  rapidly,  and 
as  if  he  were  speaking  to  himself,  "  the  place  was  well 
enough;  there  was  nothing  but  those  wretched  cottages 
facing  the  sea,  the  green,  and  a  few  cottages  about  it; 
but  since  those  villas  have  been  put  up,  Southwick  has 


become  unbearable.  All  my  troubles,"  he  murmured, 
"  originated  in  the  Southdown  Road." 

Maggie  turned  aside,  smiled,  and  bit  her  lip;  she  did 
not  speak,  however,  for  she  knew  her  father  did  not 
care  to  be  interrupted  in  his  musings. 

"  A  hateful  place — glass  porticoes,  and  oleographs  on 
the  walls."  Here  Mr.  Brookes  stopped  in  his  walk  to 
admire  one  of  his  favourite  Friths.  "  Those  ridicidous 
haberdashers,  with  a  bas-relief  of  the  founder  of  their 
house  over  the  doorway.  The  proprietors  of  the  baths, 
the  Measons,  poor  as  church  mice,  the  son  of  a  mate  of 
a  merchant  vessel — these  are  not  proper  associates  for 
my  daughters.  I  will  not  know  them;  I  will  not  have 
them  in  my  house." 

"  The  Measons  are  quite  as  good  as  we  are,  father. 
They  may  be  poor,  but  as  far  as  family  goes " 

"You  are  just  the  same  as  the  others,  Maggie;  once 
there  is  a  young  man  to  flirt  with,  you  don't  care  what 
he  is  or  where  he  comes  from.  When  there  are  no  young 
men,  you  will  snub  the  old  ladies  fast  enough;  and  as 
for  Sally,  she  is  downright  rude.  I  didn't  want  to  see 
the  haberdashers,  but  while  they  were  in  my  house  I  was 
polite  to  them." 

"  It  was  the  Horlocks  who  told  them  to  call." 

"  I  know  it  was.  If  Mrs.  Horlock  likes  to  know  these 
people,  let  her  know  them;  but  what  does  she  want  to 
force  them  upon  us  for?  That's  what  I  want  to  know. 
We  might  never  have  known  any  one  in  the  Southdown 
Road;  I  mean  we  never  should,  we  never  could  have 
known  any  one  in  the  Southdown  Road  if  Mrs.  Horlock 
hadn't  come  to  live  there.     We  had  to  call  upon  her." 

"  Every  Viceroy  in  India  called  upon  her.  She  was 
the  only  woman  whom  every  Viceroy  did  call  upon." 

"  I  know  she  was.  Of  course  we  had  to  call  upon  her. 
Most  interesting  woman;  the  General  is  very  nice,  too. 
I  like  them  exceedingly.     I  often  go  to  see  them,  al- 


8 

though  the  smell  of  that  mastiff  is  more  than  I  can  bear 
in  the  hot  weather,  especially  if  lilies  or  strong  smelling 
flowers  are  in  the  room." 

"  She  feeds  the  mice,  she  won't  let  them  be  destroyed, 
she  lets  the  traps  down  at  night." 

"  Don't  let  us  go  into  the  animal  question.  The  con- 
stant smell  of  dogs  is  unpleasant,  but  I  could  put  up  with 
it — what  I  can't  stand  are  her  acquaintances  in  the  South- 
down Road,  and  when  I  think  that  we  should  not  have 
known  any  of  them  if  it  hadn't  been  for  her !  Indirectly 
— I  do  not  say  directly — she  is  the  cause  of  all  my  diffi- 
culties. It  was  at  her  house  Sally  met  young  Meason; 
it  was  at  her  house  Grace  met  that  young  officer  for  whom 
she  is  crying  her  eyes  out;  and  it  was  at  her  house — yes, 
I  hadn't  thought  of  it  before — it  was  at  her  house  that 
Willy  met  that  swindler  who  induced  him  to  put  two 
thousand  pounds  into  the  Bond  Street  shop.  The  South- 
down Road  might  have  remained  here  for  the  next  five 
hundred  years,  and  we  should  have  known  nothing  of  it 
had  it  not  been  for  Mrs.  Horlock;  if  she  likes  to  know 
these  people  let  her  know  them,  but  why  force  them  upon 
us?  It  was  only  the  other  day  she  was  talking  to  me 
about  calling  on  some  new  friends  of  hers  who  have  come 
to  live  there.  I  daresay  it  is  the  custom  to  call  on  every 
one  at  Calcutta,  but  I  say  that  Calcutta  etiquette  is  not 
Southwick  etiquette,  and  I  don't  care  how  many  Viceroys 
called  upon  her,  I  will  not  know  the  Southdown  Road." 

The  enunciation  of  this  last  sentence  was  deliberate 
and  impassioned.  Mr.  Brookes  walked  twice  across  the 
room;  then  he  stood,  his  hands  crossed  behind  his  back, 
looking  at  his  admired  Goodall.  His  anger  melted,  and 
he  mused  on  the  price  he  had  paid,  and  the  price  he 
thought  it  was  now  worth.  Fearing  he  would  return  to 
the  Southdown  Road  trouble,  Maggie  said:  "I  am 
afraid  we  shall  be  obliged  to  get  rid  of  the  new  cook. 
She  is  Irish.     Just  before  you  came  in  I  found  her  in 


9 

the  stable-yard  threatening  to  break  Holt's  head  with  a 
pair  of  dreadful  old  boots." 

"  I  don't  want  to  hear  about  the  cook.  The  money 
you  spend  in  housekeeping  is  enormous.  Since  your 
poor  mother  died  I  haven't  had  a  day's  peace.  If  it  isn't 
one  thing  it  is  another.  You  are  fit  for  nothing  but 
pleasure  and  flirtation;  there  isn't  a  young  man  in  the 
place  or  within  ten  miles  you  haven't  flirted  with.  I  am 
often  ashamed  to  look  them  in  the  face  at  the  station. 
It  is  past  seven;  why  isn't  dinner  ready?  " 

"  Sally  told  the  cook  to  put  the  dinner  back  half  an 
hour." 

"  Sally  told  the  cook  to  put  my  dinner  back  half  an 
hour !  " 

Mr.  Brookes's  face  grew  livid.  The  end  of  all  things 
was  at  hand ;  his  dinner  had  been  put  back  half  an  hour ! 
This  was  a  climax  in  the  affairs  of  his  life,  which  for 
the  moment  he  failed  to  grasp  or  estimate.  Was  a  father 
ever  cursed  with  such  daughters  as  his.''  He  had  been 
in  the  City  all  day  working  for  them;  he  did  not  marry 
because  he  wished  to  leave  them  his  money,  and  this  was 
the  return  they  made  to  him.  His  dinner  had  been  put 
back  half  an  hour !  Passion  sustained  him  for  a  while ; 
but  he  gave  way,  and,  pulling  out  a  silk  handkerchief, 
he  sank  into  a  chair. 

"  Don't  cry,  father,  don't  cry.  Sally  is  thoughtless ; 
she  didn't  mean  it." 

Mr.  Brookes  wept  for  a  few  minutes;  Maggie  strove 
to  soothe  him;  he  waved  her  away,  he  wiped  his  eyes 
and  in  a  voice  broken  with  anguish,  "  Ah,  well,"  he  said, 
"  I  suppose  it  will  be  all  the  same  a  hundred  years  hence." 
In  moments  of  extreme  trouble  he  sought  refuge  in  such 
philosophy,  but  now  it  seemed  inadequate  and  superfi- 
cial, and  Maggie  had  begun  to  fear  the  violence  of  the 
storm  she  had  brewed.     She  did  not  mind  stimulating 


10 

ill-feeling,  but  she  did  not  wish  Sally  to  provoke  her 
father  recklessly. 

The  possibility  of  his  marrying  again  and  having  a 
second  family  was  the  one  restraining  influence  Mr. 
Brookes  still  retained  over  his  daughters,  so  Maggie,  who 
was  always  keenly  alive  to  the  remotest  consequences  of 
her  actions,  took  care  that  his  home  never  became  quite 
unbearable  to  him;  and  when  Sally  entered  the  room, 
dark  and  brilliant  in  red  velvet,  and  in  no  way  disposed 
to  admit  she  had  been  guilty  of  heinous  wrong  in  counter- 
manding the  dinner,  Maggie  attempted  a  gentle  pouring 
of  oil  on  the  waters.  But  waving  aside  her  sister's  gentle 
interposition,  she  said :  "  You  mustn't  think  of  yourself 
only,  father.  I  admit  I  told  the  cook  to  put  back  the 
dinner  a  few  minutes.     What  then  ?  " 

"  You  did  it  that  you  might  finish  your  conversation 
with  young  Meason,"  said  Mr.  Brookes,  but  his  words 
were  weak,  it  being  doubtful  if  even  Meason  could  add 
to  the  original  offence,  so  culminating  and  final  did  it 
seem  to  him. 

"  Maggie  didn't  tell  you  that  last  week  she  met  him 
on  the  sea  road,  and  walked  with  him  into  Portslade." 

"  Father,  father,  I  beg  of  you,  now,  don't  cry ;  think 
of  the  servants." 

And  it  was  in  such  unity  of  mind  and  feeling  that  this 
family  sat  down  to  dinner  in  the  great  dining-room,  rich 
with  all  comforts  and  adorned  with  pictures  by  Frith 
and  Goodall.  Sally,  who  unfortunately  knew  no  fear, 
talked  defiantly;  she  addressed  herself  principally  to  her 
brother,  and  she  questioned  him  persistently,  although 
the  replies  she  received  were  generally  monosyllabic.  As 
he  chewed  his  meat  with  reflection  and  precaution,  broke 
his  bread  with  deliberate  and  well-defined  movements, 
and  filled  his  mouth  with  carefully  chosen  pieces,  he 
gradually  ventured  to  decide  that  he  would  not  speak 
to  his  father  that  evening  of  the  scheme  he  had  been 


11 

hatching  for  some  months.  It  was  one  of  his  strictest 
rules  not  to  think  while  eating,  so  it  may  be  said  that  it 
was  against  his  will  that  he  arrived  at  this  conclusion. 
Willy  suffered  from  indigestion,  and  he  knew  that  any 
exercise  of  the  brain  was  most  prejudicial  at  meal  times. 

After  dinner  Mr.  Brookes  and  his  son  retired  to  the 
billiard-room  to   smoke. 

"  Your  sisters  are  a  great  trouble  to  me — a  very  great 
anxiety.  Since  your  poor  mother  died  I've  had  no  peace, 
none  whatever.  Poor  Julia,  she's  gone;  I  shall  never 
see  her  again." 

Willy  made  no  answer.  He  was  debating;  he  was 
still  uncertain  whether  the  present  time  could  be  consid- 
ered a  favourable  one  to  introduce  his  scheme  to  his 
father's  notice,  and  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  it  was, 
when  he  was  interrupted  by  Mr.  Brookes,  who  had  again 
lapsed  into  one  of  his  semi-soliloquies. 

"  Your  sisters  give  me  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  a  very 
great  deal  of  anxiety.  I  am  all  alone.  I  have  no  one 
to  help  me  since  the  death  of  your  poor  mother." 

"  My  sisters  are  fitted  for  nothing  but  pleasure,"  Willy 
replied  severely. 

CHAP.  II. 

MR.  BROOKES  went  to  London  every  day  by  the  five 
minutes  to  ten;  Willy  walked  into  Brighton.  There  he 
had  been  for  some  time  striving  to  found  an  agency  for 
artificial  manures,  and  in  the  twilight  of  a  small  office 
he  brooded  over  the  different  means  of  making  money 
that  were  open  to  him.  The  young  ladies  worked  or 
played  as  it  struck  their  fancy.  Sally  admitted  that  she 
infinitely  preferred  walking  round  the  garden  with  a 
young  man  to  doing  wool-work  in  the  drawing-room. 
Maggie  shared  this  taste,  although  she  did  not  make  bold 
profession  of  it.     Grace  was  the  gentlest  of  the  sisters, 


12 

and  had  passed  unnoticed  until  she  had  fallen  in  love 
with  a  penniless  officer,  and  tortured  her  father  with 
tears  and  haggard  cheeks  because  he  refused  to  supply 
her  with  money  to  keep  a  husband.  The  doctor  had 
ordered  her  iron;  she  had  been  sent  to  London  for  a 
change,  but  neither  remedy  was  of  much  avail,  and  when 
she  returned  home  pale  and  melancholy  she  had  not 
taken  the  keys  from  Maggie,  but  had  allowed  her  to 
usurp  her  place  in  the  house.  Sally  was  supposed  to 
look  after  the  conservatories,  but  beyond  her  own  special 
flowers  she  left  everything  to  the  gardeners. 

On  Sundays  Mr.  Brookes  walked  through  the  long 
drawing-rooms  aimlessly.  Sometimes  he  would  stop  be- 
fore one  of  his  pictures.  "  There,  that's  a  good  picture. 
I  paid  a  lot  of  money  for  it,  I  paid  too  much,  mustn't  do 
so  again."  Passing  his  daughters,  sometimes  without 
speaking,  he  then  stopped  before  one  of  the  big  chimney- 
pieces,  and,  pulling  out  his  large  silk  pocket  handker- 
chief, dusted  the  massive  clocks  and  candlesticks. 

In  the  billiard-room,  at  a  table  drawn  up  close  to  the 
coke  fire,  WUly  slowly  and  with  much  care  made  pencil 
notes,  which  he  slowly  and  with  great  solemnity  copied 
into  his  diary. 

"  Your  sisters  are  a  great  source  of  trouble  to  me,  a 
source  of  deep  anxiety,"  said  Mr.  Brookes,  and  he  flicked 
the  rearing  legs  of  a  bronze  horse  with  his  handkerchief. 

"  My  sisters  are  only  fit  for  pleasure,"  said  Willy  and 
he  finished  the  tail  of  the  y,  passed  the  blotting  paper 
over,  and  prepared  to  begin  a  fresh  paragraph. 

"  I  am  afraid  Grace  is  scarcely  any  better ;  she  will  not 
leave  her  room.  I  hear  she  is  crying.  It  is  too  ridicu- 
lous, too  ridiculous.  "What  she  can  see  in  that  man  I 
can't  think;  he  is  only  a  man  of  pleasure.  I've  told  her 
so,  but  somehow  she  can't  get  to  see  why  I  will  not  settle 
money  upon  her — money  that  I  made  myself,  by  hard 
work,  judicious  investments." 


18 

"  That's  a  smack  at  the  shop,"  thought  Willy,  as  he 
placed  his  full  stop. 

"  I'll  not  settle  my  money  upon  her,"  said  Mr.  Brookes, 
as  he  resumed  his  dusting;  "and  for  what.''  to  keep  an 
idle  fellow  in  idleness.  No,  I'll  not  do  it.  She'll  get 
over  it — ah,  it  will  be  all  the  same  a  hundred  years 
hence.  But  tell  me,  have  you  noticed — no,  you  notice 
nothing " 

"  Yes,  I  do ;  what  do  you  want  me  to  say,  that  she  is 
looking  very  ill.''  I  can't  help  it,  if  she  is.  I've  quite 
enough  troubles  of  my  own  without  thinking  of  other 
people's.  I'm  sure  I  am  very  sorry.  I  wish  she'd  never 
met  the  fellow." 

"  That's  what  I  say,  I  wish  she'd  never  met  the  fellow, 
and  she  never  would  had  it  not  been  for  that  horrible 
Southdown  Road.  Southwick  has  never  been  the  same 
since  those  villas  were  put  up." 

"  I  know  nothing  about  them ;  I  won't  know  them. 
I  don't  go  to  the  Horlocks'  because  I  may  meet  people 
there  I  don't  want  to  know.  If  you  hadn't  allowed  the 
girls  to  go  there,  she  never  would  have  met  him." 

"  But  we  had  to  call  on  the  Horlocks.  Every  Viceroy 
that  ever  came  to  India  called  upon  her,  and  they're 
excellent  people — titled  people  come  down  from  London 
to  see  them:  but  I  daresay  their  banking  accounts 
wouldn't  bear  looking  into.  She  walks  about  the  green 
with  the  chemist's  wife,  and  has  the  people  of  the  baths 
to  dinner.  Most  extraordinary  woman.  I  like  her,  I 
enjoy  her  society;  but  I  can't  follow  her  in  her  opinions. 
She  says  that  only  men  are  bad;  that  all  animals  are 
good;  that  it  is  only  men  who  make  them  bad.  Her 
views  on  hydrophobia  are  most  astonishing.  She  says 
it  is  a  mild  and  easy  death,  and  sees  no  reason  why  the 
authorities  should  attempt  to  stamp  it  out.  She  quite 
frightened  me  with  the  story  she  told  me  of  a  mad  dog 
that  died  in  her  arms.     But  that  by  the  way.     The  point 


14 

is  not  now  whether  she  is  right  to  feed  mice  in  her  bed- 
room instead  of  getting  rid  of  them,  but  whether  we 
should  call  on  people  we  don't  want  to  know  because  she 
asks  us  to  do  so.  I  say  we  should  not.  When  she  spoke 
to  me  the  other  day  about  the  lady  whose  mother  was  a 
housemaid,  I  said,  '  My  dear  Mrs.  Horlock,  it  is  very 
well  for  you  to  call  on  those  people.  I  approve  of,  I 
admire  magnanimity;  but  what  you  can  do  I  cannot  do. 
You  have  no  daughters  to  bring  out;  every  Viceroy  that 
ever  came  to  India  called  on  you,  your  position  in  the 
world  is  assured,  your  friends  will  not  think  the  less  of 
you  no  matter  how  intimately  you  know  the  cheraist's 
wife,  but  you  could  not  do  these  things  if  you  had  daugh- 
ters to  bring  out.'  " 

"  What  did  she  say  to  that.?  " 

"  She  was  just  going  out  to  walk  with  her  pugs.  An- 
gel began  to — you  know,  and  for  the  moment  she  could 
think  of  nothing  else;  when  the  little  beast  had  finished 
I  had  forgotten  the  thread  of  my  argument.  However, 
I  spoke  to  her  about  Grace,  and  she  promised  that  she 
shouldn't  meet  the  fellow  again.  I  can't  think  of  his 
name,  I  get  lost  in  the  different  names,  and  they  are  all 
so  alike  I  scarcely  know  one  from  the  other.  I  have  had 
nothing  but  trouble  since  your  poor  mother  died.  Your 
sisters  give  me  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  and  you  have 
given  me  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  We  couldn't  get  on  in 
business  together  on  account  of  your  infernal  slowness. 
No  man  is  more  for  keeping  his  accounts  and  letters 
straight  than  I,  but  your  exactitude  drives  me  mad;  it 
drives  me  mad;  there  you  are  at  it  again.  I  should  like 
tc  know  what  you  are  copying  into  that  diary.  One 
would  think  you  were  writing  an  article  for  the  Times, 
from  the  care  with  which  you're  drawing  out  every  letter ; 
*pon  my  word  it  isn't  writing  at  all,  it's  painting.  You 
can't  write  for  a  pair  of  boots  without  taking  a  copy  of 


16 

the  letter,  entering  it  into  this  book,  and  entering  it  into 
that  book;  'pon  my  word  it  is  maddening." 

Willy  laughed.  "  Each  person  has  his  own  way  of 
doing  business;  I  don't  see  how  it  interferes  with  you, 
or  what  difference  it  makes  to  you,  if  I  spend  three 
minutes  or  three  days  writing  a  letter." 

"  Perhaps  not,  perhaps  not ;  but  I  am  terribly  upset 
about  Grace,"  said  Mr.  Brookes,  and  he  walked  slowly 
across  the  room  and  stood  looking  at  his  Bouguereau; 
"  she'll  get  over  it,  but  in  any  case  she'll  miss  her  chance 
of  marrying  Berkins;  that  is  what  distresses  me.  The 
man  stinks  of  money.  I  hear  that  he  has  been  appointed 
manager  of  a  colliery,  that  alone  will  bring  him  an- 
other thousand  a  year.  His  business  is  going  up,  he 
must  be  worth  now  between  seven  and  eight  thousand  a 
year.  And  he  began  as  an  office  boy,  he  hadn't  a  penny 
piece,  made  it  all  himself." 

"  So  I  should  think ;  a  purse-proud  ass !  " 

"  Never  mind,  his  eight  thousand  is  as  good  an  eight 
thousand  as  any  in  the  land,  better  than  a  great  many. 
I  wouldn't  give  a  snap  of  my  fingers  for  your  broken- 
down  landowners;  Berkins  has  always  made  excellent 
investments,  and  I  hear  he  is  now  getting  as  much  as 
fifteen  per  cent,  for  money  invested." 

Willy  had  been  to  Oxford,  and  the  arrogance  and 
pomposity  of  this  purse-proud  man  shocked  his  sense  of 
decorum.  Berkins's  vulgarity  was  more  offensive  than 
that  of  Mr.  Brookes.  Mr.  Brookes  was  a  simple,  middle- 
class  man,  who  had  made  money  straightforwardly  and 
honestly,  and  he  had  cultivated  his  natural  taste  for  pic- 
tures to  the  limit  of  his  capacities  and  opportunities. 
Berkins,  however,  had  been  born  a  gentleman,  but  had 
had  to  shift  for  himself,  even  when  a  lad,  and  he  had 
caught  at  all  chances;  he  was  more  sophisticated,  he  was 
a  gentleman  in  a  state  of  retrograde,  and  was  in  all  points 
inferior  to  him  whom  he  crossed  in  his  descent.     Berkins 


16 

had  bought  a  small  place,  a  villa  with  some  hundred 
acres  attached  to  it,  on  the  other  side  of  Preston  Park. 
There  he  had  erected  glass-houses,  and  bred  a  few 
pheasants  in  the  corner  of  a  field,  and  it  surprised  him 
to  find  that  the  county  families  took  no  notice  of  him. 
Mr.  Brookes  had  sympathised,  but  the  young  people 
laughed  at  him  and  Willy  had  told  a  story  of  how  he  had 

been  to  shoot  at  ,  and  when  the  partridge  got  up 

right  in  front  of  his  gun,  Berkins  turned  round  and  shot 
it,  exclaiming:     "  That's  the  way  to  bring  them  down!  " 

And  now  whenever  his  name  was  mentioned,  Willy 
thought  of  this  incident,  so  very  typical  did  it  seem  to 
him  of  the  man,  and  he  liked  to  twit  his  father  with  it. 
But  Mr.  Brookes  could  not  be  brought  to  see  the  joke, 
and  he  fell  back  on  the  plausible  and  insidious  argument 
that,  notwithstanding  his  manners,  Berkins  was  worth 
eight  thousand  a  year. 

"  And  very  few  girls  get  the  chance  of  catching  eight 
thousand  a  year;  and  she'll  miss  it,  she'll  miss  it  if  she 
doesn't  take  care." 

"  You  talk  of  it  as  if  it  were  an  absolute  certainty ; 
you  don't  know  that  Berkins  wants  to  marry  Grace;  he 
hasn't  been  here  for  the  last  month." 

"  Mr.  Berkins  is  not  like  the  young  good-for-nothings 
your  sisters  waste  their  time  with,  he  is  a  man  of  means, 
of  eight  thousand  a  year;  and  don't  expect  him  to  come 
round  here  every  evening  to  tea,  and  to  play  tennis,  and 
to  walk  in  the  moonlight  and  talk  nonsense.  Berkins  is 
a  man  of  means,  he  is  a  man  who  can  make  a  settlement." 

"  Has  he  spoken  to  you  on  the  subject,  then?  " 

"  No,  Mr.  Berkins  is  a  man  of  tact,  however  you  may 
laugh  at  him  for  having  shot  your  partridge.  He  spoke 
to  your  Aunt  Mary,  or  rather  she  spoke  to  him.  Ah, 
clever  woman,  your  Aunt  Mary,  wonderfid  manner,  won- 
derful will,  when  she  wants  a  thing  done  it  must  be  done. 
Your   poor   mother — I   mean   no   disparagement — but    I 


17 

must  say  she  couldn't  compare  with  her  for  determina- 
tion; Sally  reminds  me  of  her,  but  Sally's  determination 
is  misdirected,  deplorably  misdirected;  it  is  directed 
against  me,  entirely  against  me.  She  must  be  made  sub- 
missive; when  I  spoke  to  Aunt  Mary  about  her,  she  said 
her  spirit  must  be  broken;  and  if  she  were  here  she'd 
break  it.  If  she  were  here  things  would  be  very  differ- 
ent, your  sisters  wouldn't  be  flirting  with  all  the  little 
clerks  in  the  Southdown  Road;  but  I  am  alone.  I  have 
no  one  to  turn  to." 

"  You  were  telling  me  that  Berkins  had  spoken  to  Aunt 
Mary  about  Grace." 

"Your  Aunt  Mary  spoke  to  Berkins  about  Grace;  she 
told  him  he  ought  to  be  thinking  of  marrying;  that  he 
wanted  a  wife.  Then  the  conversation  turned  on  my 
daughters,  and  Mary  no  doubt  mentioned  that  at  my 
death  they  would  all  have  large  fortunes." 

"  Ah,  so  it  is  the  money  that  Berkins  is  after." 

"  Money  comes  first.  If  a  man  can  make  a  settlement 
he  will  naturally  demand  a — that  is  to  say  he  will  natu- 
rally look  forward,  he  will  consider  what  her  prospects 
are;  not  her  immediate  prospects,  that  would  be  mer- 
cenary, but  her  future  prospects." 

Willy  smiled.     "  And  what  did  Berkins  say  ?  " 

"  He  said  he  wanted  to  marry,  and  he  spoke  of  Grace ; 
he  said  he  admired  her.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  we 
saw  him  at  church  to-day." 

"  Are  you  going  to  ask  him  to  lunch  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  if  he's  there."  Then,  after  a  long  silence, 
Mr.  Brookes  said :  "  He'll  come  in  here  to  smoke.  Of 
course  you'll  leave  us  alone.  Do  you  mind  leaving  out 
your  cigars  ?  " 

"  I  have  only  half  a  box  left ;  I  think  really  you  might 
keep  some  in  the  house  to  supply  your  own  guests  with. 
You  always  object  if  I  interfere  with  your  things." 


18 

"  I  am  out  of  my  best  cigars — it  is  so  hard  to  remem- 
ber.    He  won't  smoke  more  than  one." 

"  I'll  put  one  in  the  cigar  case  then." 

"  You  had  better  fill  it ;  it  will  look  so  bad  if  there  is 
only  one;  he  won't  take  it." 

"  He'll  take  all  he  can  get ;  he  took  my  bird,  I  know 
that!" 

"  This  is  a  matter  of  great  importance." 

"  To  you  and  to  Grace,  not  to  me/'  said  Willy,  and 
with  very  bad  grace  he  unlocked  a  drawer,  and  placed  a 
box  of  cigars  on  the  table. 

"Thank  you.  Now  what  time  is  it?  Half-past  ten. 
By  Jove!  we  must  be  thinking  of  starting;  I  suppose 
you  aren't  coming?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  I've  too  much  to  do  this  morning." 

The  young  ladies  appeared  in  new  dresses,  and  with 
prayer-books  in  their  hands.  Mr.  Brookes  took  his  hat 
and  umbrella,  and  Willy  watched  them  depart  with  un- 
disguised satisfaction.  "  Now  I  shall  be  able  to  get 
through  some  work,"  he  said,  untying  a  large  bundle  of 
letters.  He  wrote  a  page  in  his  diary,  tied  up  the  letters, 
diary,  and  notebook  in  brown  paper,  and,  with  a  sigh, 
admitting  that  he  did  not  feel  up  to  much  work  to-day, 
he  took  up  the  envelopes  that  had  contained  his  letters 
and  began  tearing  oflf  the  stamps,  and  he  did  this  very 
attentively  as  if  he  did  not  trust  his  dry  thick  fingers. 
Somebody  had  told  him  that  ten  thousand  old  stamps 
were  worth — he  had  forgotten  the  price  of  old  stamps, 
and  wondering  he  dozed  off.  When  he  awoke  he  cried: 
"  Half-past  twelve,  they  must  be  on  their  way  back;  I 
wonder  if  Berkins  is  with  them !  "  And  he  strolled  out 
on  the  gravel. 

A  few  spring  flowers  marked  the  brown  earth  about 
the  trees,  and  a  beautiful  magnolia,  white  as  a  bride,  shed 
its  shell-like  petals  in  an  angle  beneath  a  window;  the 
gold  of  the  berberis  glowed  at  the  end  of  the  path;  and 


19 

the  greenery  was  blithe  as  a  girl  in  clear  muslin  and  rib- 
bons. The  blackbirds  chattered  and  ran,  and  in  turn 
flew  to  the  pan  of  water  placed  for  them,  and  drank,  lift- 
ing their  heads  with  exquisite  motion.  The  trees  rustled 
in  the  cold  wind;  the  sky  was  white  along  the  embank- 
ment, where  an  engine  moved  slowly  up  and  down  the 
line. 

Willy  was  sensible  that  the  scene  was  pleasant  and 
pretty,  and  remembering  he  was  fond  of  birds,  he  thrust 
his  hands  deeper  in  his  pockets  and  walked  slowly  down 
the  drive,  his  toes  well  turned  out.  "  I  wonder  if  they 
met  Berkins  at  church.''"  was  the  question  he  put  to 
himself  gravely.  "  What  a  cad  he  is !  No  wonder  the 
county  people  fight  shy  of  us;  a  fellow  like  that  is 
enough  to  close  their  doors  against  us  for  ever.  My 
father  pooh-poohs  everything  but  riches;  he  positively 
flies  in  their  faces,  so  what  can  I  do-f*  I  don't  care  to 
ask  my  Oxford  friends  down  here;  one  never  knows  how 
he  will  receive  them.  He  can  talk  of  nothing  but  his 
business.  Had  I  a  free  hand,  had  I  not  been  so  ham- 
pered, we  might  have  known  all  the  best  county  families, 
even  the  duke." 

The  latch  of  the  gate  clicked,  and  Mr.  Brookes  and 
his  family  appeared.  Maggie  and  Sally  walked  on  the 
right  and  left  of  their  father;  Grace  came  on  behind  with 
Berkins,  and  it  seemed  to  Willy  that  the  City  magnate 
bore  himself  with  something  even  more  than  his  usual 
dignity.  At  first  sight  he  suggested  that  anomalous  crea- 
ture— a  footman  with  a  beard;  and  the  slow,  deliberate 
enunciation  marked  him  as  one  accustomed  to  speak  in 
public.  His  manner  of  sitting  at  a  table  suggested  let- 
ters and  dictation  of  letters,  his  manner  of  moving  his 
glasses  on  his  nose  accounts,  and  at  no  moment  would  it 
have  been  surprising  to  see  him  place  his  strong  finger 
at  the  bottom  of  a  line  of  figures,  and  begin  "  Gentle- 
men "  etc. 


20 

During  lunch,  Sally  and  Maggie  spoke  in  undertones; 
they  glanced  occasionally  at  Grace,  who  sat  by  and  re- 
ceived Berkins's  bald  remarks  with  deference.  The  girls 
trembled  with  excitement;  they  had  pressed  and  extorted 
from  Grace  a  hurried  statement  of  what  had  happened. 
Berkins  had  proposed  to  her,  he  had  told  her  he  had 
never  seen  any  one  except  her  whom  he  would  care  to 
make  his  wife.  What  had  she  said?  She  didn't  know. 
She  couldn't  really  remember.  She  had  been  taken  so 
suddenly,  she  was  so  upset,  that  she  hadn't  known  what 
to  say.  She  thought  she  had  said  something  about  the 
honour — but  she  really  had  not  had  time  to  say  much, 
for  at  that  moment  they  were  at  the  gate.  Did  she  in- 
tend to  accept  him.f*  She  didn't  know;  she  could  not 
tpake  up  her  mind.  It  was  a  terrible  thing  to  throw  over 
poor  Jack;  she  didn't  think  she  could  do  it — no  matter 
what  father  might  say.  However,  she  knew  he  would 
never  give  his  consent,  so  it  was  no  use  thinking. 

"  I  hope  she  won't  begin  to  cry,"  whispered  Sally,  who 
had  followed  Maggie  to  the  sideboard. 

"  Father  looks  as  if  he  were  going  to  cry,"  replied 
Maggie,  moving  the  decanters  and  pretending  to  look  for 
a  glass. 

Seven  thousand  a  year,  ten  thousand  a  year !  Wordd 
Grace  have  him?  What  would  father  settle  on  her? 
The  sum  he  settled  on  her  he  must  settle  on  them  when 
they  married.  As  Berkins's  wife  Grace  would  have  serv- 
ants, jewels,  rich  dresses,  and  a  house  in  London,  and 
they  thought  of  the  advantage  this  marriage  would  be 
to  them. 

The  knives  clattered;  cheese  and  celery  were  being 
eaten.  Mr.  Brookes  had  drimk  several  glasses  of  port, 
and  was  on  the  verge  of  tears.  Berkins's  high  shoulders 
and  large  voice  dominated  the  dining-table ;  he  was  de- 
cidedly more  than  usually  impressed  by  his  own  worth, 
and  the  worth  of  the  money  of  which  he  was  the  repre- 


21 

sentative.  Willy  chewed  lus  cheese;  there  were  many 
wrinkles  ahout  his  eyes — deep  lines  turning  towards  the 
ears;  and  when  he  lifted  his  tumbler  one  noticed  the 
little  nails,  almost  worn  away,  of  his  lean  hands. 

At  last  Mr.  Brookes  said :  "  I  daresay  you  would  like 
a  cigar,  Berkins — will  you  come  into  the  billiard-room?  " 

Berkins  inclined  to  this  suggestion.  Willy,  who  had 
not  quite  finished,  remained  at  table.  The  girls  watched 
each  other,  and  as  soon  as  the  elderly  men  turned  their 
backs  they  fled  upstairs  to  their  rooms. 

"  Will  you  try  one  of  these.''  "  said  Mr.  Brookes,  offer- 
ing a  box  of  choice  havannas. 

"  Thank  you.  My  tobacconist — I  must  ask  you  to  visit 
his  shop — receives  just  a  few  cases  of  a  very  special 
cigar;  I  have  at  least  two-thirds  of  them,  sometimes 
more;  when  you  dine  with  me  I'll  give  you  one.  This 
is  Chartreuse,  I  think.  My  wine  merchant  knows  a  man 
whose  cousin  is  one  of  the  monks.  Now  the  monks  set 
aside  the  very  cream  of  the  liqueur,  if  I  may  so  speak, 
for  themselves.  This  liqueur  cannot  be  bought  in  the 
open  market.  You  may  go  up  to  London  prepared  to 
write  a  cheque  for  any  figure  you  may  like  to  name,  and 
I  will  defy  you  to  buy  a  bottle.  I  never  have  any  other. 
It  is  really  quite  delicious.  I  daresay  I  could  get  you 
some." 

Mr.  Brookes  expressed  thanks  for  the  amiable  offer, 
and  both  men  smoked  on  in  silence. 

"  Do  you  play  billiards  }  " 

"  No.     Do  you?  " 

"  No." 

Inwardly  they  congratulated  themselves.  Presently 
Mr.  Brookes  said:  "  I  hear  you  have  been  staying  with 
my  sister,  Mrs.  Haltom.  You  were  shooting  there,  were 
you  not?  " 

"  Yes,  they  were  kind  enough  to  ask  me.  Very  nice 
shooting  they  have,  too." 


22 

"  I  hear  that  you  have  gone  in  for  rearing  pheasants." 

"  Yes ;  we  shot  a  hundred  brace  last  year." 

The  conversation  dropped,  and  in  an  impressive  silence 
both  men  wondered  what  they  had  better  say  to  lead 
honourably  up  to  the  subject  they  had  come  to  speak  on. 

"Is  your  house  your  own  design?  Did  you  build  it 
entirely  yourself?  I  forget.  I  ought  to  know;  you  told 
me  all  about  it  when  I  dined  with  you." 

"  There  was  a  house  there,  but  I  altered  it  considerably 
after  my  own  idea,  and  not  a  bad  idea,  I  flatter  myself. 
I  spent  a  good  deal  of  money  in  laying  out  the  groimds, 
putting  up  conservatories,  and  so  forth." 

"  You  are  a  single  man  ?  " 

"  For  a  single  man  the  house  is,  of  course,  too  large ; 
but  I  do  not  intend  to  remain  always  single,  and — and 
now,  Mr.  Brookes,  as  we  are  on  the  subject,  I  had  better 
tell  you  that  I  have  asked  Miss  Brookes  to  be  my  wife." 

Mr.  Brookes  grasped  at  the  first  words.  "  I  am  sure 
I  am  very  pleased  to  hear  it,  Mr.  Berkins,  and  I  hope 
the  answer  was  a  favourable  one." 

"  Miss  Brookes  is  a  modest  girl.  She  has  been  well 
brought  up,  as  a  girl  who  is,  I  hope,  to  be  my  wife,  should 
be,  and  she  was  naturally  a  little  overcome.  I  did  not 
exactly  catch  what  she  said,  and  I  didn't  like  to  press  her 
for  an  immediate  answer.  But  suppose  we  assume  for 
the  moment  that  Miss  Brookes's  reply  will  be  a  favour- 
able one — I  have,  I  confess,  much  faith  in  her  good 
sense — we  might  consider  the  business  side." 

Notwithstanding  his  admiration  of  a  man  who  had 
made  three  thousand  a  year  more  than  he  had  succeeded 
in  doing,  Mr.  Brookes  could  not  but  feel  irritated  at 
Berkins,  who,  with  increasing  gravity,  continued  to  as- 
sume all  things  to  his  own  advantage.  It  had  not 
occurred  to  him  to  consider  that  Grace  might  refuse  him. 
Why  should  she  refuse  him?  She  could  not  hope  to  do 
better.     She  appeared  to  him  as  a  very  nice  girl  indeed. 


23 

one  entirely  fitted  for  the  position  for  which  he  intended 
her.  He  understood  that  all  girls,  at  least  those  in  so- 
ciety, were  innocent  and  virtuous;  he  understood  that 
when  they  married  they  made  faithful  and  dutiful  wives; 
and  he  had  chosen  her  not  because  he  had  fallen  in  love, 
nor  yet  because  he  had  noticed  she  was  likely  to  make  a 
better  wife  than  her  sisters,  but  because  she  was  the 
eldest.  Even  so,  he  would  be  twenty  years  his  wife's 
senior,  and  he  had  chosen  to  marry  one  of  the  Brookes 
girls  because  he  knew  them  and  saw  them  constantly; 
because  he  knew  that  at  their  father's  death  his  fortune 
would  be  divided  between  them.  Grace  was,  therefore, 
an  heiress  in  perspective.  The  prospect  was  agreeable, 
but  he  foresaw  that  it  would  be  put  forward  as  an  excuse 
for  fixing  the  sum  of  marriage  settlements  as  low  as  pos- 
sible. It  would,  however,  be  difficult  for  Brookes  to 
settle  less  on  his  daughter  than  he,  Berkins,  was  willing 
to  settle  on  his  wife;  so  partly  in  the  hopes  of  forcing 
Mr.  Brookes,  and  partly  because  of  the  pleasure  it  gave 
him  to  speak  of  himself,  he  continued  talking  of  his  posi- 
tion and  possessions. 

"  In  dealing  with  me,"  he  said,  "  you  are  dealing,  as 
you  know,  Mr.  Brookes,  with  a  man  of  means,  a  man 
who  can  afford  to  do  the  thing  properly;  you  will  not 
misunderstand  me — you  remember  you  told  me  that  you 
had  great  difficulty  in  keeping  the  little  folk  who  live 
here  out  of  your  house." 

"  The  neighbourhood  has  never  been  the  same  since 
tliey  put  up  that  row  of  villas.  A  lot  of  indigent  fortune- 
hunters,  they  know  my  girls  will  have  large  fortunes  at 
my  death,  so  they  come  sneaking  round  the  place  like  so 
many  wolves." 

"  I  can  readily  sympathise  with  you;  one  doesn't  make 
money  to  keep  idle  young  fellows  in  the  luxuries  of  life." 

"  That  is  what  I  say." 

"  But  you  aren't  sufficiently  firm,  Mr.   Brookes ;  had 


24 

you  been  brought  up  in  the  hard  school  that  I  was  you 
would  be  more  firm;  firmness  is  everything.  You  mar- 
ried early,  I  couldn't  afford  to  do  that.  At  sixteen  I  had 
to  shift  for  myself.  I  was  three  years  a  clerk  at  two 
pounds  a  week,  and  not  many  chances  to  rise  come  in  the 
way  of  a  clerk  at  two  pounds  a  week;  he  must  be  pretty 
sharp,  and  if  he  doesn't  seize  the  little  chance  when  it 
comes,  he  will  remain  a  little  clerk  all  his  life.  It  is  the 
first  steps  that  are  difficult,  the  rest  are  nothing.  You 
don't  know  what  the  first  steps  are;  I  do.  Once  you've 
made  a  thousand  pounds  you  can  swim  along  a  bit,  but 
the  first  hundred,  I  shall  never  forget  it!  Afterwards 
it  is  just  the  same;  the  proportions  are  changed,  that  is 
all.  The  first  twenty  thousand  is  very  uphill  work,  the 
second  is  on  the  flat,  the  third  is  going  downhill — it 
brings  itself  along." 

"  A  very  good  simile  indeed.  There's  no  doubt  that 
it  is  money  that  makes  money.  When  you  have  none 
you  cannot  make  it.  It  is  like  corn;  give  a  man  a  hand- 
ful, and  he  must  be  a  fool  if  he  can't  fill  his  barn.  The 
beginnings  are  hard;  none  knows  that  better  than  I.  But 
for  the  last  ten  years  I've  been  doing  fairly  well." 

"  I  had  never  intended  to  get  married,  but  when  money 
really  begins  to  accumulate  it  pushes  you  along.  It  is 
curious  how  money  takes  you  along.  It  is  like  a  tide. 
You  first  begin  thinking  of  a  little  place  in  the  coimtry 
where  you  can  stay  from  Saturday  till  Monday.  The 
little  place  grows;  it  is  extraordinary  how  its  grows. 
You  find  you  want  flowers,  and  you  put  up  a  glass-house ; 
then  you  begin  to  get  interested  in  orchids  or  roses,  and 
you  put  up  two,  maybe  half  a  dozen  glass-houses.  Sud- 
denly you  find  the  rabbits  are  breeding  in  the  hedgerows, 
and  you  go  out  yonder  ferretting,  but  the  coachman  does 
not  know  how  to  manage  the  ferrets,  and  you  start  a 
keeper.  The  keeper  says  one  morning,  '  It  wouldn't  re- 
quire much  to  get  up  a  stock  of  pheasants  in  that  little 


25 

wood.'  You  say,  *  Very  well ; '  and  there  you  are  before 
you  know  it,  with  glass-houses,  rabbit-shooting,  and  a 
pheasant  preserve.  You  have  friends  to  stay  with  you 
for  the  shooting,  you  get  talked  about  in  the  clubs,  people 
ask  why  you  aren't  married — the  place  where  the  wife 
ought  to  be  stares  you  in  the  face:  a  man  of  money,  of 
real  money,  must  get  married.  The  friends  who  come 
and  stay  with  you  suggest  a  little  dance,  you  think  it 
would  be  very  pleasant;  but  you  know  no  one  in  the 
neighbourhood,  the  county  people  won't  visit  you,  so  the 
thing  comes  about,  and  you  are  head  over  heels  in  settle- 
ments before  you  know  where  you  are." 

"  Do  you  find  the  county  people  very  standoffish  over 
Preston  Park  way.^*  " 

"  I  am  not  in  a  position  to  judge;  they  could  not  very 
well  call  on  me  situated  as  I  am,  a  young — well,  I  will 
say,  a  marriageable — man,  known  to  be  wealthy;  but  I 
have  no  doubt  when  I  am  married  they  will  call  on  us." 

"  Twirl  them  round  my  little  finger,  stuck-up  lot ;  I 
should  like  to  know  what  they  have  to  be  proud  of,  half 
of  them  are  broken — their  land  is  worthless.  Give  me 
good  sound  investments,  five  or  six  per  cent.  For  some 
money  I  am  getting  seven;  the  waterworks  pays  four- 
teen." 

The  conversation  suddenly  dropped,  they  looked  at 
each  other  blankly ;  they  felt  they  had  talked  a  good  deal, 
but  without  approaching  any  nearer  the  subject  they  had 
met  to  speak  on. 

"  Our  intention  was,"  said  Berkins,  in  his  most  solemn 
and  professional  manner,  "  assuming  that  Miss  Brookes 
is  not  averse  from  my  suit,  to  discuss  the  business  side, 
for  there  is  a  business  side  to  all  questions,  as  you,  Mr. 
Brookes,  will  be  the  first  to  see." 

Mr.  Brookes  had  begun  to  anger;  he  would  have  liked 
to  have  answered  that  such  a  discussion  was  altogether 
premature,  but  he  yielded  before  Berkins's  authoritative 


26 

manner,  and  he  replied  instead  that  he  would  be  glad 
indeed  to  hear  whatever  proposal  Mr.  Berkins  had  to 
make. 

"  I  should  like  to  say,  then — I  will  assume  that  we 
stand  as  man  to  man,  equal;  you  have  probably  more 
money  invested  than  I;  I  am  making  possibly  a  larger 
income — you  will  forgive  me  if  I  am  mistaken,  but  you 
told  me  the  other  day  as  we  went  up  in  the  train  that 
you  had  had  a  very  bad  year." 

"  Three  thousand  dead  loss.  It  does  not  matter  so 
much  to  me,  my  money  is  invested,  but  it  would  have  gone 
hard  with  many  a  man  who  was  relying  on  his  business. 
Three  thousand  pounds  dead  loss !  " 

"  How  was  that.''  I  suppose  the  temperance  societies 
affect  you;  they  must  have  had  a  great  effect  on  the  sale 
of  liquor." 

"  No  one  who  was  not  in  the  trade  would  believe  in 
the  falling  off  in  the  quantity  of  whisky  drunk.  But  it 
was  not  that." 

"What  then.?" 

"  Trade  generally,  trade  depression  affects  every  one ; 
the  failure  of  one  makes  bad  debts  for  the  other.  It  was 
bad  debts  that  did  it.  It  was  very  stupid  of  me,  but  I 
was  worried  at  home:  those  fortime-hunters  from  the 
villas — my  daughters  are  very  yoimg,  and  since  their 
poor  mother  died  they  have  had  no  one  to  look  after  them. 
Willy,  too,  is  a  great  trial  to  me.  Poor  boy,  he  is  most 
anxious  to  do  something,  but  things  don't  go  right  with 
him;  he  thought  he  was  going  to  do  a  good  thing  in  a 
Bond  Street  shop  that  was  converted  into  a  company,  but 
he  lost  two  thousand  pounds." 

"  I  thought  he  was  in  the  distillery  with  you." 

"  He  was  for  a  while,  but  he  irritated  me;  he  is  so 
confoundedly  methodical,  everything  must  go  into  his 
diary,  he  spends  half  the  day  filling  it  up.  Besides  after 
you  have  conducted  a  business  so  many  years  you  don't 


27 

want  a  partner;  you  have  your  own  way  of  doing  things, 
and  don't  want  to  be  interfered  with.  He  draws  a  certain 
income,  but  he  has  nothing  now  to  do  with  the  business. 
We  were  talking  of   settlements." 

"  You  do  not  act  as  I  should  regarding  the  villa  resi- 
dences. I  would  put  them  down.  I  would  not  have  it; 
but,  as  you  say,  we  were  talking  of  settlements.  I 
think  I  said  we  stood  as  man  to  man.  In  round  num- 
bers your  fortune  equals  mine,  mine  equals  yours — very 
M-^ell,  let  us  act  equally.  I  will  settle  five  hundred  a  year 
on  Miss  Brookes,  do  you  likewise;  what  do  you  say  to 
that.?" 

"  Pooh,  pooh !  I  couldn't  think  of  such  a  thing.  Five 
hundred  a  year !  "  said  Mr.  Brookes,  and  throwing  his 
cigar  into  the  fireplace,  he  walked  up  the  room  indig- 
nantly. "  I  was  wrong  to  consent  to  discuss  the  matter ; 
to  say  the  least,  it  is  premature;  I  never  heard  of  such 
a  thing.  Five  hundred  a  year!  This  is  worse  than  the 
Southdown  Road,  many  degrees  worse." 

"  Sir,  such  insinuations  are  most  uncalled  for ;  I  must 
beg  of  you  to  withdraw  them.  I  must  ask  you  to  remem- 
ber you  are  talking  to  one  at  least  in  the  same  position 
as  yourself,  to  a  man  of  seven  thousand  a  year !  " 

"  Pooh,  pooh !  seven  thousand  a  year — you  are  making 
that  to-day,  to-morrow  you  mayn't  be  making  three. 
Yours  isn't  invested  money." 

Berkins  had  risen  from  the  great  leather  armchair, 
and  he  stood  expressionless  as  a  piece  of  office  furniture, 
his  grave  face  divided  by  the  green  shade  of  the  billiard 
lamp;  Mr.  Brookes  remained  with  his  back — his  straight 
fat  back  bound  in  a  new  frock  coat  that  defined  the  senile 
fatness  of  the  haunches — turned  to  his  guest.  He 
stooped  as  if  to  examine  his  favourite  Linnell,  but,  in 
his  passion,  he  did  not  see  it.  The  table,  covered  with 
a  grey  cloth,  lay  like  an  account  spread  out  between  the 
moneyed  men. 


28 

"  Taking  your  words  into  due  consideration,  I  think  I 
bad  better  wish  you  good-morning,  Mr.  Brookes." 

"  Mr.  Berkins,  I  would  not  wish  you  to  misunderstand 
me/'  said  Mr.  Brookes,  whom  the  prospect  of  losing  seven 
thousand  a  year  had  suddenly  cooled.  "  My  daughter 
will  have — my  children,  I  should  say — will  have  my  for- 
tune divided  amongst  them  at  my  death,  and  when  we 
come  to  go  into  figures  you  will  find " 

"  But  in  the  meantime,  what  do  you  propose  to  settle 
on  her?" 

Mr.  Brookes  hesitated.  He  was  angry  at  being 
pressed.  Berkins's  domineering  tone  irritated  him;  he 
would  have  liked  to  bundle  him  from  the  house.  Pres- 
ently he  said :  "  I  think,  considering  the  very  large  sums 
of  money  my  daughters  will  come  into  at  my  death,  that 
a  settlement  of  two  hundred  a  year  is  ample." 

"  Very  well,  in  that  case  I  shall  settle  the  same." 

"  I  could  not,  I  will  not,  consent  to  any  such  arrange- 
ment. The  man  my  daughter  marries  must  settle  on  her 
a  sum  of  money  equivalent " 

"  To  what  you  settle  on  her." 

"  To  her  position,  to  her  expectations,"  replied  Mr. 
Brookes,  growing  more  and  more  angry. 

"  But  I  don't  know  what  her  expectations  are ;  you 
may  marry  again." 

"  I  do  not  intend  to  marry  again." 

"  Very  possibly,  but  I  know  nothing  of  that ;  business 
is  business,  and  I  should  be  a  fool  if  I  settle  five  hundred 
to  yomr  two  hundred." 

Mr.  Brookes  stopped  in  his  walk,  and  he  looked  at 
Berkins,  who  stood,  his  hand  laid  upon  the  billiard  table 
as  upon  a  huge  balance  sheet.  The  word  business  had 
carried  the  men  back  to  their  offices  in  London,  and,  quite 
forgetful  of  the  subject  of  their  bargaining,  each  strove 
to  obtain  an  advantage  over  the  other. 


29 

"Well,  let  us  say  two  hundred  and  fifty,  that  is  my 
last  word." 

"  Then,  Mr.  Brookes,  I  will  not  take  your  daughter." 


CHAP.  III. 

"  WILLY,  make  haste,  I  beg  of  you ;  I  shall  miss  my 
train.     It  is  now  exactly  half-past  nine." 

"  You  had  better  go  without  me ;  I  cannot  start  now. 
I  haven't  nearly  got  my  things  together." 

"  Very  well,  very  well." 

Willy  walked  from  room  to  room  tying  and  untying 
brown  paper  parcels  in  his  most  methodical  and  most 
dilatory  manner.  His  sisters  stood  watching  him  from 
the  drawing-room  door. 

"  Did  father  tell  you  nothing  when  Berkins  left  ?  They 
had  a  row,  hadn't  they.^*    It  isn't  off,  is  it.''  " 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  speak  so  loud,  Sally ;  you  can 
be  heard  all  over  the  house." 

"  Do  tell  us." 

"  But  I  don't  know.  Father  was  very  much  upset.  I 
couldn't  speak  to  him  about  my  own  business,  I  know 
that." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  we  shall  hear  about  it  to-night.  You 
are  going  to  meet  Frank  in  Brighton,  aren't  you.''  " 

"  Yes ;  he  is  coming  to  lunch  with  me." 

"  Don't  keep  him  all  day ;  send  him  on  here,  we  might 
have  a  game  of  tennis." 

Willy  did  not  answer;  and  he  thought  as  he  went  up- 
stairs, what  a  trouble  young  girls  were  in  a  house. 
"They  think  of  nothing  but  pleasure,  nothing  but 
pleasure." 

One,  two,  or  three  more  delays,  and  he  was  ready,  and 
with  his  brown  paper  parcel  tucked  under  his  arm  he 
set  forth.     Upon  the  young  blue  of  the  sky,  the  fresh 


30 

green  of  the  buds  melted.  There  were  a  few  elms,  but 
hardly  enough  to  constitute  an  avenue.  The  house  looked 
as  if  it  had  been  repeatedly  altered.  It  ran  into  unex- 
pected corners  and  angles;  but  it  was  far  enough  from 
the  road  to  justify  a  gate  lodge.  The  swards  were  in- 
terspersed with  shrubs  in  the  most  modern  fashion,  and 
the  sumptuous  glass-houses  could  be  seen  gleaming  in 
the  sun.  It  was  a  hot  day,  and  the  brick  wall  was 
dappled  with  hanging  foliage,  and  further  out,  opposite 
the  windows  of  the  "  Stag  and  Hounds,"  where  Steyn- 
ing's  ales  could  be  obtained,  the  over-reaching  sprays  of 
a  great  chestnut  tree  fell  in  delicate  tracery  on  the  white 
dust.  The  road  led  under  the  railway  embankment,  and 
looking  through  the  arched  opening,  one  could  see  the 
dirty  town,  straggling  along  the  canal  or  harbour,  which 
runs  parallel  with  the  sea.  A  black  stain  was  the  hull 
of  a  great  steamer  lying  on  her  side  in  the  mud,  but  the 
tapering  masts  of  yachts  were  beautiful  on  the  sky,  and 
at  the  end  of  a  row  of  slatternly  houses  there  were  some- 
times spars  and  rigging  so  strange  and  bygone  that  they 
suggested  Drake  and  the  Spanish  main. 

Southwick  is  half  a  suburb,  half  a  village.  In  the 
summer  months  the  green  seems  a  living  thing.  It  is 
there  the  children  talk  and  tumble  when  school  is  over. 
They  are  told  to  go  to  the  green,  they  are  forbidden 
to  go  to  the  green,  and  it  is  from  the  green  the  eldest 
girl  leads  the  naughty  boy  howling.  When  they  are  a 
little  older  they  avoid  the  green,  it  is  too  public  then. 
It  is  to  the  green  that  elevens  come  from  far  and  near 
to  play  their  matches.  All  the  summer  through  the  green 
is  a  fete  of  cricket.  It  is  to  the  green  the  brass  bands 
come  on  Saturday.  On  the  green,  bat  and  trap  is  played 
till  the  ball  disappears  in  shadow.  The  green  is  com- 
mon; horses  and  cows  are  turned  out  there.  All  profit 
by  the  green.  It  is  on  the  edge  of  the  green  the  house- 
wives come  to  talk  in  the  limpid  moonlight.     It  is  on 


31 

the  green  the  fathers  smoke  when  the  little  cottage  rooms 
are  unbearable  with  summer  heat.  It  is  on  the  green 
that  Mrs.  Horlock  walks  with  her  pugs  and  the  chemist's 
wife,  to  the  enormous  scandal  of  the  neighbourhood. 

To  the  right,  facing  the  embankment,  and  overlooking 
some  fields,  is  the  famous  Southdown  Road,  and  parallel 
with  the  green  is  Mr.  Brookes's  property — a  solid  five 
acres,  with  all  modern  improvemer'.s  and  embellishments, 
and  surrounded  by  a  brick  wall    -ver  six  feet  high. 

Willy  hated  Southwick.  He  thought  it  ugly  and  vul- 
gar; he  regretted  deeply  that  his  father  would  make  no 
advances,  and  that  they  were  as  far  from  county  society 
to-day  as  when  they  came  to  live  in  the  place  thirty 
years  ago.  "  I  knew  the  best  people  when  I  was  at  Ox- 
ford, why  can  I  not  know  them  now.f*  Here  we  are 
doing  the  same  thing  from  year's  end  to  year's  end ;  why, 
with  our  money  we  ought  to  be  hob-nobbing  with  the 
duke."  In  moments  of  dejection  this  was  one  of  Willy's 
commonest  thoughts.  "  I  did  my  best,  but  I  was  op- 
posed. Father  doesn't  care,  and  as  for  the  girls,  they'll 
take  up  with  any  man  so  long  as  he  is  young.  Still,  in 
spite  of  them  I  should  have  got  on  if  I  hadn't  lost  my 
nerve  and  had  to  give  up  hunting;  and  without  hunting 
there  is  no  way  of  making  acquaintances." 

Willy  had  relied  on  a  hunter  as  Berkins  had  on  pheas- 
ants and  glass-houses.  But  he  hated  himting,  and  find- 
ing he  got  no  further  than  a  few  breakfasts,  he  had  told  a 
story  of  a  heavy  fall  and  sold  his  horses.  He  had  then 
insisted  on  dinner-parties,  and  some  few  people  more  or 
less  "county"  had  been  collected;  the  pretext  was  poli- 
tics, but  Willy  and  politics  were  but  a  doleful  mixture, 
and  the  scheme  collapsed.  The  family  was  not  endowed 
with  any  social  qualifications,  Willy  least  of  all,  and 
having  failed  to  advance  himself  individually,  and  his 
family  collectively,  he  threw  up  the  game. 

We  rarely  cultivate  for  long  things  in  which  we  may 


82 

not  succeed — the  lady  with  a  small  waist  pinches  it, 
the  man  with  pretty  feet  wears  pretty  shoes,  and  in  no 
circumstances  could  Willy  have  shone  in  society.  He 
failed  to  interest  the  ladies  he  met  on  the  King's  Road, 
he  knew  this;  and  to  sum  up  his  deficiencies,  let  us  say 
he  was  lacking  in  "  go."  He  was  too  timid  to  succeed 
with  the  more  facile  loves  whom  he  met  in  the  evenings 
on  the  pier.     All  the  same  he  had  had  his  love  affair. 

Oh!  men  of  inferior  aspect  and  speech,  often  in  you 
a  true  heart  abides ;  you,  and  you  only,  are  faithful  to  the 
end. 

To  this  unromantic  person  a  shred  of  pure  romance 
was  attached.  None  knew  the  whole  story,  and  none 
spoke  of  it  now;  but  his  sisters  remembered  that  Willy 
had  fallen  in  love  with  a  girl  whom  he  had  seen  play 
"  Sweet  Anne  Page."  They  remembered  long  letters, 
tears  and  wild  looks.  He  had  sent  her  diamonds;  and 
one  night  he  had  attempted  suicide.  All  was  now  for- 
gotten; at  least  it  was  the  past,  and  nothing  remained 
but  one  little  melody  which  he  had  heard  her  sing,  and 
v/hich  he  sometimes  whistled  out  of  tune. 

But  sooner  or  later  a  man's  talents,  and  if  not  his 
talents,  his  tastes,  appear  through  the  mists  of  youth, 
and  henceforth  they  lead  him.  Willy's  efforts  in  society 
had  resulted  in  abortive  dinner-parties,  his  efforts  in  sport 
had  been  cut  short  by  nerves,  his  efforts  in  dissipation 
had  left  him  with  a  tolerably  well-filled  wardrobe,  his 
efforts  in  love  had  brought  him  tears  and  a  commonplace 
mistress,  whom  he  kept  in  the  necessaries  of  life  in  vari- 
ous lodging-houses.  So  his  youth  had  passed;  but  in  all 
this  mediocrity  a  certain  spirit  of  resistance  endured. 
His  taste  for  figures  grew  more  pronounced;  he  sur- 
rounded himself  with  account  books,  letter  books,  and 
diaries;  he  took  note  of  every  penny  that  passed  through 
his  hands.  Money-making,  profitable  investments — that 
was  to  be  his  aim  in  life;  and  as  each  year  closed  his 


33 

thoughts  fixed  themselves  more  definitely  and  entirely 
on  it;  and  it  was  natural  that  it  should  be  so,  since  all 
other  outlets  for  the  passion  of  life  were  barred  to  him. 
His  forced  retirement  from  the  distillery  did  not  worry 
him.  No  one  could  please  his  father  in  business;  his 
uncle  had  once  threatened  to  throw  his  brother  out  of  the 
window.  Besides,  the  business  was  a  declining  one,  and 
twelve  thousand  pounds  for  a  junior  partnership  was  not 
bad.  Nor  did  his  failure  to  make  a  success  of  the  manure 
agency  discourage  him;  the  shop  was  a  different  matter, 
that  was  his  own  idea,  he  had  thought  of  a  fortune,  and 
had  lost  two  thousand  pounds.  It  had  crippled  him  for 
life.  True  enough,  there  were  other  things  to  do.  Some 
stockbrokers  make  twenty  per  cent,  on  their  money,  not 
in  wild  speculation,  but  in  straightforward  genuine  busi- 
ness. He  might  go  up  to  London  and  learn  the  business 
— he  had  heard  that  it  would  not  take  more  than  six 
months  or  a  year  to  pick  it  up — and  start  on  his  own 
account.  A  thousand  pounds  would  be  suflScient  to  begin 
with;  or  he  might  buy  a  partnership — he  could  do  that 
for  three  or  four  thousand.  Either  of  these  courses 
would  suit  him,  the  latter  for  preference,  but  a  certain 
amount  of  capital  would  be  necessary  before  he  could 
take  either,  and  that  he  hadn't  got,  and  to  all  appear- 
ances it  would  be  very  difficult  to  persuade  his  father  to 
consent  to  draw  any  more  money  out  of  the  distillery. 

So  Willy's  thoughts  ran  as  he  ascended  the  flight 
of  wooden  steps  that  led  to  the  platform  of  the  little 
country  station.  "  The  folk  down  here  think  there  is 
nothing  in  me,  that  I  am  good  for  nothing  but  walking 
up  and  down  the  King's  Road,  but  they  little  know  what 
I  have  in  my  head.  I'll  make  them  open  their  eyes  one 
of  these  days."  The  sting  of  vanity  is  in  us  all.  Our 
heads  may  be  greed,  our  bellies  lust,  our  limbs  charity, 
faithfulness,  truth,  and  goodwill,  but  in  some  cranny  of 
our  tails  vanity  always  lies,  only  it  may  be  marvellously 


34 

well  hidden,  as  in  Willy.  The  keenest  ohserver  would 
not  have  detected  it  in  him,  and  when  he  came  out  of  his 
habitual  reserve  and  lamented  that  bad  luck  had  always 
followed  him  and  spoke  of  his  projects,  one  might  have 
suspected  him  of  greed,  but  hardly  of  vanity.  Now  he 
stood  leaning  on  the  wooden  paling,  and  his  movements 
showed  the  back  and  loins  in  strong  outline,  marking  the 
thick  calves.  Without  taking  any  heed,  his  eyes  fol- 
lowed the  cricket  ball,  which  was  in  turn  slogged  into  the 
horse-pond  and  cottage  gardens.  Through  long  famil- 
iarity the  green  had  faded  from  his  notice,  nor  did  the 
burnt-up  crops  on  the  Downs  attract  his  thoughts,  nor 
yet  the  sinuous  lines  of  the  hills.  From  the  platform 
one  saw  the  whole  of  Southwick.  The  green  with  its 
cricket  match,  Mrs.  Horlock  and  her  dogs,  the  forge,  the 
stile,  the  various  cottages,  the  long  fields  full  of  green 
wheat,  and,  far  away,  the  carriages  passing  like  insects 
along  the  road  under  the  Downs;  then  on  the  right  were 
the  back  gardens  of  the  cottages,  a  large  inscription  an- 
nouncing the  different  branches  of  the  grocery  business, 
a  few  fields  with  cows  leaning  their  muzzles  over  the 
rough  palings,  some  more  cottages,  a  barn,  and  then  the 
magnificent  five  acres  of  the  Manor  House,  rich  with 
glass-houses,  and  beautiful  in  a  cloud  of  trees.  From 
the  platform  of  the  station  one  could  see  the  sea,  not 
much  of  it,  but  one  could  see  the  sea;  the  slates  of  the 
street  that  went  along  the  water's  edge  did  not  quite  bar 
the  view.  The  very  small  presence  of  Southwick  con- 
trived to  hide  the  sea;  even  when  one  walked  to  the  wa- 
ter's side  the  great  mass  of  shingle  which  forms  the  outer 
bank  of  the  canal  allowed  only  one  narrow  rim  of  blue  to 
appear.  The  inhabitants  forget  they  live  by  the  sea,  and 
when  the  breeze  fills  their  gardens  with  a  smell  of  boats 
and  nets  they  think  of  the  sea  with  surprise. 

Tired  of  the  monotonous  running  to  and  fro  of  the 
cricket  players,  Willy  walked  up  the  platform.     Arrow- 


35 

like,  the  line  lay  in  front  of  him,  and  in  the  tinted  dis- 
tance, in  faint  lines  and  flashes  of  light  and  shade, 
Brighton  stretched  from  hill  to  hill.  Morning  was  still 
in  the  sky,  and  the  sea  was  deep  blue  between  the  yellow 
chimney-pots.  A  puff  of  steam  showed  up  upon  a  dis- 
tant field,  and  the  train  came  along  from  Portslade,  one 
of  the  links  of  the  great  chain  of  towns  that  binds  the 
south  coast.  "  I  hope  Frank  won't  arrive  in  Brighton 
before  me,"  thought  Willy. 

They  had  been  big  boy  and  little  boy  at  school.  The 
vivacity  of  the  Celt  amused  the  good-natured  south 
Saxon,  and  when  Lord  Mount  Rorke  called  to  see  his 
nephew,  he  found  him  talking  with  Brookes.  Once  Willy 
had  been  invited  to  spend  part  of  his  holidays  at  Mount 
Rorke.  Afterwards  they  visited  each  other's  rooms,  and 
so  their  friendship  had  been  decided,  and,  in  spite  of — 
or,  perhaps,  on  account  of — a  very  marked  difference  in 
their  characters  and  temperaments,  gathered  strength  as 
it  matured.  Another  link  between  the  men  was  that 
Escott  had  accompanied  Willy  to  the  theatre  when  he 
went  to  see  the  actress  whom  he  had  loved  so  madly. 
Frank  had  heard  her  sing  the  song  which  Willy  whistled 
when  his  thoughts  went  wandering.  Willy  confided  in  no 
one — great  sorrows  cannot  be  and  never  are  confided; 
but  Frank  had  seen  her,  and  he  played  her  songs  on  the 
piano,  and  that  was  enough  for  Willy. 

The  young  men  had  not  seen  each  other  for  two  years. 
Frank  had  shown  some  taste  for  painting,  and  his  uncle, 
whose  heir  he  was,  had  sent  him,  if  not  to  study,  at  least 
to  think  about  art  in  Italy.  From  Italy  he  had  gone  to 
Greece  and  Russia,  he  had  returned  home  through  Ger- 
many, he  had  visited  Holland  and  France. 

"  Is  the  London  train  come  in  ?  "  Willy  asked  when  he 
arrived  in  Brighton. 

"  Yes,  sir,  just  come  in,  about  five  minutes,"  said  the 
man  as  he  opened  the  door.     Willy  waited  until  the  train 


36 

had  stopped  dead,  he  got  out  carefully,  and,  looking 
through  the  confusion  of  luggage  and  bookstall  trade,  he 
saw  Escott  questioning  a  porter  and  hailing  a  carriage. 
"  By  Jove !  I  shall  miss  him,"  cried  Willy,  and  he  has- 
tened his  steps  and  broke  into  a  sharp  trot.  "  Frank ! 
Frank !  "  he  cried. 

"  Oh,  there  you  are !  "  cried  Frank,  and  he  lifted  his 
stick,  and  called  sharply  to  a  large  black  and  white  bull- 
dog that  paddled  about  on  its  bow  legs,  saliva  dripping 
from  its  huge  jaws,  looking  in  its  hideousness  like  some- 
thing rare  and  exquisite  from  Japan.  He  dismissed  the 
porter  and  the  carriage,  which  he  had  hailed  with  an 
arrogant  wave  of  his  stick.  He  was  tall  and  he  was  thin. 
His  trousers  were  extremely  elegant,  a  light  cloth,  black 
and  white  check,  hung  on  his  legs  in  graceful  lines, 
and  he  wore  tiny  boots  with  light  brown  cloth  tops.  The 
jacket  and  waistcoat  were  in  dark  brown  cloth,  and  the 
odour  of  the  gardenia  in  his  buttonhole  contrasted  with 
that  of  the  sachet-scented  silk  pocket-handkerchief  which 
lay  in  his  side  pocket.  His  throat  showed  white  and 
healthy  in  the  high  collar  tied  with  a  white  silk  cravat 
in  a  sailor's  knot,  fastened  with  a  small  diamond.  His 
hands  were  coarse  and  brown;  he  wore  two  rings,  and  a 
bracelet  fell  out  of  his  cuff  when  he  dropped  his  arm. 
His  chest  was  broad  and  full,  but  the  shoulders  were  too 
square;  the  coat  was  padded.  There  was  little  that 
could  be  called  Celtic  in  his  face  or  voice,  the  admixture 
of  race  was  manifested  in  that  dim  blue  stare,  at  once 
vague  and  wild,  which  the  eyes  of  the  Celt  so  often  ex- 
hibit. The  nose  was  long,  low,  and  straight,  the  nostrils 
were  cleanly  marked,  the  mouth  was  uncertain,  the  chin 
was  uncertain,  the  face  was  long,  deadly  pale,  rather 
large,  the  forehead  was  high,  receding  at  the  temples. 
The  hair  (now  he  removes  his  hat,  for  the  air  is  heavy 
and  hot,  and  the  sun  falls  fiercely  on  the  pavement)  is 
pale  brown,  and  it  waves  thinly  over  the  high  forehead, 


37 

so  expressive  of  a  vague  and  ill-considered  idealism. 
Frank  Escott  was  of  Saxon  origin  on  his  father's  side, 
but  the  family  had  been  in  Ireland  for  the  last  two 
hundred  years,  and  had  married  into  many  Irish  fami- 
lies that  had  at  different  times  received  direct  contribu- 
tions of  Celtic  blood.  Long  residence  in  England  had 
removed  all  Irish  accent  and  modes  of  speech;  but  in 
hook,  and  book,  and  cook  he  lengthened  the  vowel  sound. 
Occasionally  a  something  strange  grated  on  the  ear,  and 
declared  him  not  of  the  south  of  England,  suggested  the 
north,  and  insinuated  Cumberland;  an  actor  could  not 
reproduce  these  trifling  differences  without  caricaturing 
them.  He  was  absolutely  good-looking,  and  he  was  too 
well  dressed.  He  laughed  a  good  deal,  and  his  conver- 
sation was  sprinkled  with  cynical  remarks  and  cutting 
observations. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  go  in  for  dress  now  as  you  used  to." 
"  I  haven't  the  money  to  spend   on  it ;   but  tell   me, 
don't  you  like  this  suit.''  " 

"  Well,  pretty  well ;  whose  is  it  ?  Did  Walpole  make 
it.''     Do  you  deal  with  him  still?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  one  of  Walpole's,  but  I  have  had  it  turned." 
"  Had  it  turned  ?     I  have  heard  of  turning  an  overcoat, 
but  a  morning  coat!     I  did  not  know  it  could  be  done; 
that's  what  makes  it  look  so  shaky." 

"  Now,  don't  you  get  laughing  at  my  coat,  it  looks  very 
well  indeed.  I  suppose  you  think  I  am  not  fit  to  walk 
with  you.  I  daresay  it  doesn't  look  as  smart  as  yours, 
which  has  just  come  out  of  Walpole's  shop." 

The  young  men  had  so  much  to  say,  and  were  so  gen- 
uinely glad  to  see  each  other,  that  their  thoughts  hesitated 
and  they  were  embarrassed. 

"  I  suppose  you  enjoyed  your  trip  abroad  very  much," 
Willy  said  drily  and  punctiliously ;  "  you  were  more  than 
a  year  away — nearly  eighteen  months,  I  think." 

"  About  that.     I  enjoyed  myself.     I  think  I  liked  Italy 


38 

best;  it  has  been  more  painted  and  described  than  any 
country,  and  yet  it  is  quite  different  from  what  one 
imagines;  it  is  grey  and  dim  and  green  and  dusty.  It 
looks — how  shall  I  put  it  ? — it  looks  worn  out  and  faded." 

"  The  women  aren't  worn  out  and  faded  if  all  one 
hears  is  true,"  said  Willy,  with  a  short  laugh. 

"  The  women  are  right  enough.  I  must  tell  you  about 
them  one  of  these  days,  lots  of  stories.  There  was  a 
little  Italian  girl  I  met  at  Milan.  It  was  a  job  to  get 
away  from  her ;  she  followed  me,  'pon  my  word,  she  did ; 
she  declared  she  would  commit  suicide.  I  was  awfully 
frightened.  Naples  is  really  too  shocking.  I'm  not  a 
prude,  but  Naples  is  really " 

"  I  suppose  it  is  the  same  all  over  the  Continent.  One 
of  these  days  I  must  go  abroad  and  have  a  look  round. 
You  were  a  long  time  in  Rome  ?  " 

"  No,  only  a  few  weeks,  but  I  was  too  taken  up  with 
the  pictures  to  think  of  anything  else.  The  Michael 
Angelos  are  beyond  anything  any  one  can  imagine.  He 
is  the  only  one  who  can  compare  with  the  Greeks,  and 
I  don't  see  why  one  shouldn't  say  he  is  as  great.  Of 
course  there  are  things,  the  daughters  of — I  forget  the 
name — the  group  of  two  women  leaning  back  in  each 
other's  arms  in  the  British  Museum.  But  I  don't  know, 
Michael  Angelo  is  quite  different,  and  I  can't  see  that 
anything  can  be  said  to  be  finer  than  the  figures  of  Day 
and  Night — how  often  I  have  drawn  them — the  figure 
of  Night,  the  heavy  breasts  to  show  that  she  has  suckled 
the  Day. 

"  But  which  way  are  we  going  ?  I  must  go  to  Truefitt's 
to  have  my  hair  cut." 

"  You  haven't  forgotten  the  old  place,  I  see.  Do  you 
still  keep  up  your  subscription?  " 

"  I  suppose  mine  has  run  out,  I  have  been  abroad  so 
long.  Nothing  like  a  good  shampoo ;  for  a  guinea  a  year 
you  can  have  it  done  as  often  as  you  like." 


89 

"  I  haven't  subscribed  lately.  There  used  to  be  such 
a  pretty  girl  at  the  counter.     Do  you  remember  ?  " 

"  You  dog,  always  thinking  of  them,"  and  laughing 
loudly  they  passed  through  the  shop,  and  it  was  Frank 
that  stared  most  at  the  young  lady.  They  read  Punch 
aloud  to  each  other;  they  cracked  jokes  with  the  hair- 
dressers; they  snorted  and  laughed  through  the  soap 
and  jets  of  hot  and  cold  water.  Frank  allowed  scent 
and  ivories  to  be  pressed  upon  him  by  the  young  lady 
at  the  counter;  Willy  declined  to  be  led  into  such 
extravagances. 

As  he  stepped  out  into  the  shine  of  the  street,  and 
took  step  from  his  friend,  he  said :  "  By  George !  it 
makes  me  feel  young  again.     It  is  just  like  old  times." 

"  Yes,  it  does  make  one  feel  jollier,  doesn't  it?  " 

"  How  jolly  it  is  here;  not  too  warm,  just  nice.  What 
shall  we  do?  Sit  down  on  that  bench  in  front  of  the 
pier?" 

"  I'm  agreeable.  How  jolly  it  is.  Just  look  at  those 
boats!     One  could  make  a  picture  of  that." 

Over  the  sea  hung  a  white  veil  of  mist,  but  the  sun 
glowed  through  and  melted  into  it,  and  harmonised  it 
with  the  water  green  and  translucent.  The  sea  sucked 
about  the  shingle  with  little  sudden  sighs;  the  sails  of 
the  pleasure  boat  waved  in  the  fairy-like  depths,  and  all 
the  little  brown  fishing-boats  lay  becalmed,  heaving 
tremulously  like  tired  butterflies  upon  the  breast  of  a 
blue  flower.  The  nursemaids  lay  together  on  the  shingle, 
and  their  novels  slipped  down  the  stones  to  their  feet. 
The  children  played  with  the  tide  and  the  sand.  There 
were  crowds  of  women — Jewesses  with  loud  dresses: 
and  the  strange  world  of  bath  chairs !  Ladies  so  old  that 
they  seem  certain  to  fall  to  pieces  when  they  are  taken 
out;  ladies  with  chestnut  curls  soft  and  fresh — why  were 
they  in  bath  chairs?  General  oflScers,  mounted  on  white 
Arabs;  acrobats  and  songs. 


40 

The  young  men  sat  facing  the  sea.  Frank  called^ 
"  Triss,  Triss.  Splendid  dog  that  is.  If  I  were  to  let 
him  he  would  guzzle  the  other  dog  in  about  two  minutes." 

"  He  looks  a  ferocious  brute." 

"  You  don't  like  dogs  ?  You  couldn't  see  a  handsomer 
dog  than  that;  unfortunately,  he's  the  wrong  colour;  if 
he  were  brindle  or  white,  he'd  take  a  first  prize.  Come 
here,  you  brute." 

Amid  some  little  excitement  and  anxious  looks,  Triss 
came  up,  growling  and  showing  his  teeth.  Frank  ex- 
plained that  it  was  only  his  manner.  Frank  took  the 
paw  that  was  extended  to  him,  but  Triss's  friendliness 
seemed  somewhat  dubious,  for  he  still  further  uncovered 
his  formidable  fangs. 

"  I  really  don't  care  to  sit  here  with  that  ferocious 
brute." 

"  I  assure  you  he  won't  bite,  it  is  only  his  manner. 
Isn't  it,  Triss?  Kiss  me,  kiss  me  at  once,"  and  amid 
many  growls  of  almost  subterranean  awfulness,  the  dog 
licked  his  master's  face. 

"  I  wish  you  would  tie  him  up — to  oblige  me." 

Highly  pleased  at  the  fear  and  wonder  his  dog  had 
struck  in  the  gaudy  Jewesses  and  the  shaky  generals, 
Frank  threatened  and  finally  forced  the  dog  to  lie  down. 
He  continued  to  expatiate  on  the  dog's  points — the  num- 
ber of  wrinkles,  the  bandiness  of  the  legs,  etc.  The 
conversation  dropped  in  heat  and  glare,  and  the  pictur- 
esqueness  of  the  sea. 

"  How  horribly  out  of  tune  you  do  whistle — you  go 
into  a  different  key;  this  is  more  like  it." 

"  Yes,  how  sweetly  she  used  to  sing  it.  Do  you  re- 
member the  night  we  went  to  see  her,  the  last  time  the 
piece  was  played  .!*  I  threw  her  a  bouquet,  a  splendid 
one  it  was,  too,  cost  me  three  guineas  in  Covent  Garden. 
We  went  afterwards  and  had  supper  at  Scott's  in  the 


41 

Haymarket.  How  jolly  those  days  were.  I  don't  seem 
to  be  able  to  enjoy  myself  now  as  I  used  to  then." 

"  What  has  become  of  her }     One  never  hears  of  her." 

"  She  died  soon  after." 

"  I  am  sorry  I  spoke  of  her ;  I  didn't  know." 

"  Oh,  it  doesn't  matter."  Then  after  a  long  silence, 
Willy  said:    "  I  hear  your  engagement  is  broken  off." 

"  Yes."  Frank  drew  a  long  and  expressive  breath, 
and,  with  melodramatic  movements  of  the  shoulders,  he 
sighed.  "  I  have  not  seen  you  since.  Oh,  I  had  terrible 
scenes  with  the  father.  They  had  a  house  up  the  river. 
I  followed  them,  and  put  up  at  the  Angler's  Hotel.  She 
told  her  father  that  I  must  be  allowed  to  come  to  the 
house,  and  he  had  to  give  way.  You  don't  know  the 
river?  Well,  it  is  wonderful  to  awake  at  Maidenhead 
in  the  morning  and  hear  the  sparrows  twittering  in  a 
piece  of  tangled  vine;  to  see  that  great  piece  of  water 
flowing  so  mildly  in  all  the  pretty  summer  weather.  We 
used  to  live  in  flannels,  and  spent  long  afternoons  to- 
gether in  the  boat — we  had  such  a  spiffing  boat,  as  light 
and  as  clean  in  the  water  as  a  fish — and  we  used  to  linger 
in  the  bulrushes,  and  come  back  when  the  moon  was 
rising  with  our  hands  full  of  flowers." 

"  But  why  was  it  broken  oS}  " 

"  My  uncle,  old  Mount  Rorke,  wants  me  to  marry  an 
heiress,  and  I  have  nothing  except  what  he  allows  me, 
or  scarcely  anything.  She  used  to  wear  a  broad-brimmed 
straw  hat  and  the  shadow  fell  over  her  face.  I  made  a 
lot  of  sketches.  I  must  show  them  to  you  one  of  these 
days  when  you  come  up  to  town,  and  I  filled  an  album 
with  verses.  I  used  to  write  them  at  night.  My  window 
was  right  in  front  of  the  river,  and  the  moon  used  to  sail 
past,  and  in  the  morning  I  used  to  read  her  the  poems 
I  made  overnight  beneath  the  branches  of  the  cedar, 
where  we  used  to  rim  the  boat.  But  the  father  was  a 
brute.     I  got  the  best  of  him  once  though.     It  was  a 


42 

private  view  day  at  the  Academy,  and  he  had  forbidden 
Nellie  to  speak  to  me — even  to  notice  me.  I  went 
straight  up  to  her,  and  took  her  away  under  his  very  nose 
before  he  could  stop  us.  We  walked  about  all  day.  Oh ! 
he  was  mad." 

"If  she  was  willing  to  brave  her  father  that  way,  why 
was  your  engagement  broken  off."*  " 

"  My  uncle  was  so  very  difficult  to  deal  with.  I  didn't 
see  her  for  some  time."  Frank  did  not  say — perhaps, 
he  did  not  know — that  his  engagement  had  been  broken 
off  through  his  own  instability  and  weakness  of  character. 
The  young  lady,  whom  he  called  Nellie,  had  told  him 
she  would  wait  if  he  woxild  elect  a  profession  and  work 
for  a  place  in  it.  But  Frank  had  not  been  able  to  forego 
late  hours  and  restaurants,  and  Nellie  had  married  some 
one  who  could.  "  You  know  I  converted  her.  Doesn't 
her  father  hate  me  for  that!  We  used  to  go  to  high 
mass  at  the  oratory.  I  explained  to  her  the  whole  of 
the  Catholic  religion." 

"  But  I  thought  you  didn't  believe  in  it  yourself }  " 

"  I  am  talking  of  some  time  ago ;  besides,  a  woman, 
it  isn't  quite  the  same  thing;  and  if  I  have  saved  her  soxd! 
I  don't  know  if  I  told  you  that  I  was  writing  a  novel; 
I  don't  think  I  did.  The  idea  of  it  is  this:  A  young 
man  has  loved  three  women.  The  first  charmed  him  by 
her  exceeding  beauty;  he  lives  with  her  for  a  time.  The 
second  captivates  him,  or  rather  holds  him  through  his 
senses;  his  love  for  her  is  merely  a  sensuality;  then  he 
falls  in  love  with  a  fair  young  girl  as  pure  as  falling 
snow  of  any  stain  in  deed  or  in  thought;  he  is  engaged 
to  marry  her — or,  I  don't  know,  I  haven't  made  up  my 
mind  on  that  point,  perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  he  did 
marry  her.  Well,  the  woman  whom  he  has  loved  with 
a  merely  sensual  passion  comes  back,  and  to  revenge 
herself  she  tries  to  tempt  the  good  girl  to  go  wrong; 
she  talks  to  her  of  men  and  pleasures ;  this  is  a  good  idea. 


48 

I  thinkj  for  I  feel  sure  it  is  women  far  more  than  men 
who  lead  women  astray.  Then  the  first  woman  whom 
he  has  loved  for  her  heauty  merely,  comes  along  and 
continues  the  diabolical  work  of  the  first,  by  suggesting 
— I  don't  know,  anything — that  the  young  girl  should 
go  in  for  dress ;  the  young  man  finds  out  the  scheme,  and 
to  save  the  girl  he  murders  her,  he  is  thrown  into  prison, 
he  is  tried,  and  in  the  crowded  Court  he  makes  a  great 
speech — ^he  tells  how  he  murdered  her  to  save  her  from 
sin,  he  tells  the  judge  that  on  the  Judgment  Day  a  pure 
white  soul  will  plead  for  him.  What  an  opportunity  for 
a  piece  of  splendid  writing!  The  Court  would  be  filled 
with  fashionable  women,  that  weep  and  sob,  they  caimot 
contain  themselves,  the  judge  would  wish  to  stop  the 
young  man,  but  he  cannot.  What  a  splendid  scene  to 
describe!  And  the  young  man  goes  to  execution  confi- 
dent, and  assured  that  he  has  done  well.  What  do  you 
think  of  it?" 

"  It  is  really  difficult  for  me  to  say ;  I  never  like  giv- 
ing an  opinion  on  a  subject  I  don't  understand." 

"  I  know ;  but  what  do  you  think  ?  " 

Fortunately  for  Willy's  peace,  the  conversation  was 
at  this  moment  violently  interrupted  by  Triss.  He 
rushed  forth,  and  Frank  was  only  in  time  to  prevent  a 
pitched  battle.  He  returned  leading  the  dog  by  his 
silk  handkerchief,  amid  the  murmur  of  nursemaids  and 
Jewesses. 

"  That's  the  worst  of  him ;  he  never  can  see  a  big  dog 
without  wanting  to  go  for  him.  Down,  sir,  down — I 
won't  have  you  growl  at  me." 

"  I  can't  see  what  pleasure  you  can  find  in  a  brute  like 
that." 

"  I  assure  you  he's  very  good-tempered ;  he  has  a 
habit  of  growling,  but  he  does  not  mean  anything  by  it. 
What  were  we  talking  about?  " 

"  I  think  we  were  talking  about  the  ladies.     Have  you 


44 

seen  anything  nice  lately?  What's  the  present  Mrs.  Es- 
cott  like,  dark  or  fair  ?  " 

"  There  isn't  one,  I  assure  you.  I  met  rather  a  nice 
woman  at  my  uncle's,  about  two  months  ago,  a  Lady 
Seveley.  I  don't  know  that  you  would  call  her  a  pretty 
woman;  rather  a  turned-up  nose,  a  pinched-in  waist, 
beautiful  shoulders.  Hair  of  a  golden  tinge,  diamonds, 
and  dresses  covered  with  beads.  She  flirted  a  great  deal. 
We  talked  about  love,  and  we  laughed  at  husbands,  and 
she  asked  me  to  come  and  see  her  in  rather  a  pointed  way. 
It  is  rather  difEcult  to  explain  these  things,  but  I  think 
that  if  I  were  to  go  in  for  her " 

"  That  you  would  pull  it  off  ?  " 

The  young  men  laughed  loudly,  and  then  Frank  said: 
"  But  somehow  I  don't  much  care  about  her.  I  met  such 
a  pretty  girl  the  other  day  at  the  theatre.  There  were 
no  stalls,  and  as  I  wanted  to  see  the  piece  very  much, 
I  went  into  the  dress  circle.  There  was  only  one  seat 
in  the  back  row.  I  struggled  past  a  lot  of  people, 
dropped  into  my  place,  and  watched  the  piece  without 
troubling  myself  to  see  who  was  sitting  next  to  me.  It 
was  not  until  the  entr'acte  that  I  looked  round.  I  felt 
my  neighbour's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  me.  She  was  one 
of  the  prettiest  girls  you  ever  saw  in  your  life — a  blonde 
face,  pale  brown  hair,  and  such  wonderful  teeth — her 
laughter,  I  assure  you,  was  beautiful.  I  asked  her  what 
she  thought  of  the  piece.  She  looked  away  and  didn't 
answer.  It  was  rather  a  slap  in  the  face  for  me,  but  I 
am  not  easily  done.  I  immediately  said :  '  I  should  have 
apologised  before  for  the  way  I  inconvenienced  you  in 
crushing  into  my  seat,  but,  really,  the  place  is  so  narrow 
that  you  don't  know  how  to  get  by.'  This  rather 
stumped  her,  she  was  obliged  to  say  something.  The 
girl  on  the  other  side  (not  half  a  bad-looking  girl,  short 
brown  curly  hair,  rather  a  roguish  face)  was  the  most 
civil  at  first.     She  wasn't  as  pretty  as  the  one  next  to 


45 

me,  but  she  spoke  the  more  willingly;  the  one  next  to 
me  tried  to  prevent  her.  However,  I  got  on  with  them, 
one  thing  led  to  another,  and  when  the  piece  was  over, 
I  fetched  their  hats  and  coats  and  we  walked  a  little 
way  up  the  street  together.  I  tried  to  get  them  to  come 
to  supper;  they  couldn't  do  that,  for  they  had  to  be  in 
at  a  certain  time,  so  we  went  to  Gatti's  and  had  some 
cojffee.  I  couldn't  make  out  for  a  long  time  what  they 
were;  they  were  evidently  not  prostitutes,  and  they 
did  not  seem  to  me  to  be  quite  ladies.  What  do  you 
think  they  were?" 

"I  haven't  an  idea — actresses.''" 

"  No.  They  wouldn't  tell  me  for  a  long  time.  I  got 
it  out  of  them  at  last;  they're  at  the  bar  in  the  Gaiety 
Restaurant." 

"Bar  girls?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Some  of  those  bar  girls  are  very  pretty ;  rather  dan- 
gerous, though,  I  should  think." 

"  They  seemed  to  me  to  be  very  nice  girls ;  you  would 
be  surprised  if  you  heard  them  talk.  I  assure  you  the 
one  that  sat  next  to  me  spoke  just  like  a  lady.  You 
know  in  these  hard  times  people  must  do  something. 
Lots  of  ladies  have  to  buckle  to  and  work  for  their 
bread." 

Frank  lapsed  into  silence.  Willy  sat  apparently 
watching  the  blue  and  green  spectacle  of  the  sea.  Frank 
knew  that  it  interested  him  not  the  least,  and  he  won- 
dered if  his  friend  had  heard  what  he  had  been  saying. 
Triss,  seeing  that  smelling  and  fighting  were  equally 
vain  endeavours,  had  laid  himself  out  in  the  sun,  and  he 
returned  his  master's  caresses  by  deep  growls.  One  more 
menacing  than  the  others  woke  Willy  from  his  medita- 
tion, and  he  said :  "  What's  the  time  ?  It  ought  to  be 
getting  on  to  lunch  time." 

"  I  daresay  it  is. 


46 

"  Where  shall  we  go  ?  Do  you  know  of  a  good  place  ? 
What  about  that  restaurant  opposite  the  pier?" 

"  Well,"  said  Willy,  with  a  short,  abrupt  laugh,  "the 
fact  is,  I  must  lunch  at  my  oflSce;  but  I  shall  be  very 
glad  if  you  will  come." 

"  I  didn't  know  you  had  an  oflSce — an  office  for  what?" 

"  I  started  an  agency  at  the  beginning  of  the  year 
for  artificial  manure,  but  I  think  I  shall  drop  it.  I  am 
arranging  to  go  on  the  Stock  Exchange.  The  difficulty 
is  whether  I  shall  be  able  to  get  my  father  to  allow  me 
to  take  enough  money  out  of  the  business." 

"What  business?" 

"  The  distiUery." 

"  Oh,  but  what  about  this  office  ?  Why  are  you  obliged 
to  lunch  at  your  office?  Are  you  expecting  customers? 
I  know  nothing  about  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  No,  I  wish  I  were.  The  fact  is,  my  missis  is  stay- 
ing in  Brighton  for  a  few  weeks.  The  child  has  been 
ailing  a  good  deal  lately,  and  the  doctor  ordered  change 
of  air." 

"  Child !     Missis !     I  know  nothing  of  this." 

"  A  very  nice  woman,  I  think  you'll  like  her.  She  is 
devoted  to  me.  We've  been  together  now  two  years  or 
more,  I  can't  say  exactly,  I  should  have  to  refer  to  my 
diary." 

"But  the  child?" 

"  The  child  isn't  mine.  She  had  the  child  before  I 
knew  her." 

"And  what  is  the  matter  with  it?" 

"  Curvature  of  the  spine.  The  doctor  says  she  will  out- 
grow it.  Cissy  will  be  quite  strong  and  healthy,  although 
she  may  never  have  what  you  would  call  a  good  figure. 
But  there  is  a  matter  on  which  I  want  to  speak  to  you. 
The  fact  is,  I  am  going  to  be  married." 

"  To  whom?" 


47 

"  To  the  lady  whom  you  will  see  at  lunch.  Cissy's 
mother." 

Frank  said;  "  If  you  really  love  her  I  have  nothing 
to  say  against  it."  Willy  did  not  answer.  Frank  waited 
for  an  answer  and  then  broke  the  silence :  "  But  do  you 
love  her.''" 

"  Yes,  I  am  very  fond  of  her ;  she  is  a  very  good  sort." 

Frank  was  implacable.  "  Do  you  love  her  like  the 
other  one.''"  The  question  wounded,  but  Frank  was  ab- 
sorbed in  his  own  special  sentimentalities. 

**  I  was  younger  then,  it  is  not  the  same ;  I  am  getting 
old.  How  many  years  older  am  I  than  you — seven,  I 
think?  You  are  three-and-twenty,  I  am  thirty.  How 
time  flies !  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  three-and-twenty — you  don't  look  thirty." 

"  I  feel  it,  though ;  few  fellows  have  had  so  much 
trouble  as  I  have.     Your  life  has  been  all  pleasure." 

"  If  a  man  really  loves  a  woman  he  is  always  right 
to  marry  her.  Why  should  we  suppose  that  a  woman 
may  not  reform — that  true  love  may  not  raise  her.'*  I 
was  talking  to  a  novelist  the  other  day;  he  told  me  the 
story  of  a  book  he  is  writing.  It  is  about  a  woman  who 
leaves  the  husband  she  has  never  loved  for  the  man  she 
adores;  she  goes  away  with  him,  he  marries  her,  and  she 
sinks  lower  and  lower,  until  she  becomes  a  common 
prostitute." 

"  You  are  quite  mistaken.  I  am  sure  that  when  you 
see  the  missis " 

"  My  dear  fellow,  pray  do  not  misunderstand  me.  I 
would  not  for  worlds.  I  am  only  telling  you  about  a 
book,  if  you  will  only  listen.  I  told  him  that  I  thought 
the  story  would  be  ten  times  as  interesting  if,  instead 
of  being  degraded,  the  woman  were  raised  by  the  love 
of  the  man  who  took  her  away  from  her  husband.  He 
made  the  husband  a  snivelling  little  creature,  and  the 
lover  good-looking — that's  the  old  game.     I  would  have 


48 

made  the  lover  insignificant  and  the  husband  good-look- 
ing. Nevertheless  she  loved  the  lover  better.  I  know 
of  nothing  more  noble  than  for  a  man  to  marry  the 
woman  he  loves,  and  to  raise  her  by  the  force  of  his 
love;  he  could  teach  her,  instruct  her.  Nellie  will  never 
forget  me.  I  gave  her  a  religion,  I  taught  her  and  ex- 
plained to  her  the  whole  of  the  Catholic  faith " 

"  I  hope  you  won't  try  to  convert  my  sisters." 
"  You  do  pull  me  up  so !     Don't  you  understand  that 
I  was  very  young  then?     I  was  only  twenty,  not  much 
more;  besides,  I  was  engaged  to  Nellie." 

"  Come  back  to  what  we  were  talking  about." 
"  Well,  I  have  said  that  if  you  love  her  I  believe  you 
are  quite  right  to  marry  her.    But  do  you  love  her  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do ;  how  many  times  more  do  you  want  me  to 
say  I  do?" 

"  Of  course  if  you  are  going  to  be  rude " 

"  No — you  understand  what  I  mean,  don't  you  ?  I  am 
very  fond  of  the  missis;  if  I  weren't  I  shouldn't  marry, 
that  goes  without  saying,  but  one  likes  to  have  things 
settled.  I  have  been  with  her  now  more  than  two  years. 
I've  thought  it  out.  There's  nothing  like  having  things 
settled.     I'm  sure  I'm  right." 

The  young  men  looked  at  each  other  in  silence — 
Frank  quite  at  a  loss;  he  could  nowise  enter  into  the 
feelings  of  a  man  whom  an  undue  sense  of  order  and 
regularity  compelled  to  marry  his  mistress,  as  it  did  to 
waste  half  his  life  in  copying  letters  and  making  entries 
in  a  diary. 

"Then  why  did  you  consult  me?"  he  said,  for  he 
came  to  the  point  sharply  when  his  brain  was  not  mud- 
dled with  sentiment. 

"  I  am  not  heir  to  an  entailed  estate,  like  you." 
"  I  am  not  heir  to  an  entailed  estate.     Mount  Rorke 
might  marry  to-morrow." 

"  He  is  not  likely  to  do  that.     It  is  an  xmderstood 


4d 

thing  that  you  are  heir.  My  father  might  cut  me  off 
with  a  shilling  if  he  were  to  hear  I  had  married  without 
his  consent,  and  I  should  be  left  with  the  few  hundreds 
which  I  draw  out  of  the  distillery,  a  poor  man  all  my 
life." 

"  If  that  is  so,  why  marry  ?  You  are  not  in  love  with 
her — at  least  not  what  I  should  call  being  in  love." 

"  But  can't  you  understand " 

"  No,  I  can't,  unless  you  mean  that  you  are  down 
with  marriage  fever." 

"  I  have  considered  the  matter  carefully,  and  am  con- 
vinced I  am  right,"  he  answered,  looking  at  Frank  as  if 
he  would  say,  but  didn't  dare,  "  don't  let's  talk  about  it 
any  more,  it  only  distresses  me."  "  The  marriage  must 
be  kept  a  secret.  If  my  father  were  to  hear  of  it  I 
should  be  ruined,  whereas  if  Mary  will  consent  to  go  on 
living  as  we  are  living  now,  one  of  these  days  she  will 
be  a  rich  woman.  I  daresay  my  share  of  his  money  will 
come  to  at  least  fifteen  hundred  a  year,  and  then  I  shall 
be  able  to  recompense  her  for  the  years  she  has  waited 
for  it.    Do  you  understand.''  " 

"  Perfectly.  The  only  thing  I  don't  see  is  how  I  am 
to  influence  her.  You've  no  doubt  told  her  and  fully 
explained  to  her  what  the  consequences  would  be  if  you 
were  to  publish  the  banns." 

"  I  have,  but  it  would  strengthen  my  hand  if  you  were 
to  tell  her  all  you  know  of  my  father.  Tell  her  that  he 
is  very  obstinate,  pig-headed,  and  would  certainly  cut 
me  off;  tell  her  that  he  is  sixty-six,  that  it  is  a  hundred 
to  one  against  his  living  till  he  is  eighty,  even  if  he  did 
there  would  be  only  fourteen  years  to  wait  for  fifteen 
hundred  a  year;  tell  her  if  she  tells  that  I  have  married 
her  it  is  just  as  if  she  threw  fifteen  hundred  a  year 
out  of  the  window." 

"  And  when  shall  I  tell  her  all  this  ?  " 


60 

"  Now.  We  are  going  to  have  lunch  at  my  oflSce ;  she'll 
be  there.    We'll  talk  the  matter  over  after  lunch." 

"  Very  well,  let's  start.     Come  along,  Triss." 

With  Triss  tugging  dangerously  at  the  sUk  handker- 
chief whenever  he  saw  a  likely  pair  of  legs  or  a  dog  that 
he  fancied,  the  young  men  sauntered  up  West  Street. 

"  But  tell  me :  how  do  you  manage  to  have  so  many 
people  to  lunch  in  your  office;  your  premises  must  be 
pretty  extensive  ?  " 

"  I  have  the  whole  house ;  I  was  obliged  to  take  it.  I 
couldn't  get  another  place  that  would  suit  me,  and  I 
thought  I  should  be  able  to  let  the  upper  part;  I  did 
have  a  tenant  for  a  little  while,  but  he  was  obliged  to 
leave.  I  believe  I  am  the  unluckiest  fellow  alive.  Here's 
the  place." 

"  Agency  for  Artificial  Manure  "  was  printed  over  the 
door.  Willy  asked  the  office-boy  if  there  were  any  letters, 
and  they  went  upstairs.  The  windows  of  the  front  room 
were  in  view  of  a  church  spire,  and  overlooked  a  little 
shadowy  cemetery ;  and  at  one  window  Cissy  sat,  the  little 
crutches  by  her  side,  watching  the  children  playing  amid 
the  tombs. 

"  Where's  your  mother.  Cissy  ?  " 

"  In  the  back  room  cooking  herrings,  uncle." 

Mrs.  Brookes  was  a  homely,  honest-eyed  woman,  with 
dingy  yellow  hair. 

"  Let  me  introduce  you.  This  is  my  friend,  Mr.  Es- 
cott;  you  have  often  heard  me  speak  of  him." 

"  You  must  excuse  my  shaking  hands  with  you,  sir,  I 
have  been  cooking." 

"  She  is  an  excellent  cook,  too.  Just  you  wait  and  see. 
What  have  we  got?  " 

"  Some  herrings  and  a  piece  of  steak." 

"  Is  that  good  enough  for  you  ?  " 

"  I  love  herrings." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,  these  are  quite  fresh;  they  were 


SI 

caught  this  morning.  You  must  excuse  me,  I  must  go 
back;  they  want  a  deal  of  attending  to."  Presently  she 
appeared  with  a  tray  and  a  beer  jug.  Willy  called  to 
the  office-boy.  "  We  have  no  cheese,"  said  Mrs. 
Brookes. 

Cissy  begged  to  be  allowed  to  fetch  the  cheese  and 
beer. 

"  No,  dear,  I  am  afraid  you  aren't  well  enough." 

"  Yes,  I  am,  uncle ;  give  me  a  shilling,  and  let  me  go 
with  Billy."  Then,  breaking  off  with  the  unexpected 
garrulity  of  children,  she  continued :  "  I  am  getting 
quite  strong  now;  I  was  down  on  the  beach  this  morning, 
and  watched  the  little  boys  and  girls  building  mounds. 
When  I  am  quite  well,  uncle,  won't  you  buy  me  a  spade 
and  bucket,  and  mayn't  I  build  sand  mounds,  too?" 

"  We'll  see  when  the  time  comes." 

"  Well,  let  me  go  with  Billy  and  fetch  the  cheese." 

"  No,  you  can't  go  now,  dear,  there  are  too  many 
people  about;  this  is  not  like  London." 

Cissy  had  the  long  sad  face  of  cripples,  but  beautiful 
shining  curls  hung  thickly,  hiding  the  crookedness  of 
the  shoulders.  She  was  nine  years  old,  and  was  just 
beginning  to  awake  to  a  sense  of  the  importance  of  her 
affliction. 

After  lunch  she  was  sent  downstairs  to  the  office-boy. 
Willy  sat  rubbing  his  hands  slowly  and  methodically. 
After  some  hesitation  he  introduced  the  subject  they  had 
come  to  speak  on.  "  Mr.  Escott  will  tell  you,  Mary, 
how  important  it  is  that  our  marriage  should  be  kept 
secret;  he  will  tell  you  how  the  slightest  suspicion  of 
it  would  ruin  my  prospects."  He  then  spoke  of  his 
position  in  the  county,  and  the  necessity  of  sustaining 
it.  Frank  thought  this  rather  bad  taste;  but  he  assured 
Mrs.  Brookes,  with  much  Celtic  gesticulation,  that  her 
marriage  must  be  kept  a  secret  till  her  father-in-law's 
death.      The   young   men   and   Mrs.    Brookes    remained 


62 

talking  till  the  rays  trailed  among  the  green  grass  of 
the  graves,  and  the  blue  roofs  that  descended  into  the 
valley,  and  clung  about  the  sides  of  the  opposite  hill. 
It  had  been  arranged  that  Willy  and  Mrs.  Brookes 
should  go  to  London  to-morrow  to  be  married.  Frank 
was  convinced  that  she  would  not  break  her  promise, 
and  he  hoped  they  woiild  be  very  happy.  She  had  only 
raised  one  objection.  She  had  said:  "What  is  the  use 
of  my  being  married  if  I  shall  have  to  live  with  him  as 
his  mistress  }  " 

"  A  great  deal  of  good.  Your  position  will  be  secured. 
Willy  will  not  be  able  to  leave  you,  even  if  he  felt  in- 
clined, and  you  will  know  that  only  one  life,  that  of  an 
old  man,  stands  between  you  and  fifteen  hundred  a  year." 

"  I  want  no  assurance  that  my  dear  Willy  will  not 
leave  me,"  she  said,  going  over  and  putting  her  arms 
about  him ;  "  but  as  you  like.  I  shall  never  say  anything 
about  the  marriage  till  Willy  tells  me.  I  hope  I  shall 
never  do  anything  but  what  he  tells  me."  And  she  went 
over  and  sat  on  his  knees. 

"  You  are  a  dear  old  thing,"  he  said,  squeezing  and 
planting  a  vigorous  kiss  on  her  neck. 

Frank's  eyes  filled  with  hot  tears,  his  heart  seemed 
like  bursting.  "  What  a  beautiful  thing  love  is !  "  he 
said  to  himself,  and  the  world  melted  away  from  him 
in  the  happiness  he  drew  from  the  contemplation  of 
these  who  were  about  to  bind  themselves  together  for 
life. 

"  Be  most  careful  what  you  say  to  my  sisters.  I 
would  not  trust  them.     The  temptation  to  get  me  cut 

out  of  everything  might I  ought  not  to  say  that, 

but  one  never  knows.  I  daresay  no  such  accident  could 
happen  to  any  one  else,  but  if  I  leave  the  smallest  thing 
to  chance  I  am  sure  to  come  to  grief.  They  will  ques- 
tion you.    They  will  want  to  know  what  we  did  all  day." 


58 

"  I'll  say  we  sat  on  the  beach." 

"  That's  it.    Good-bye.     I  shall  be  home  the  day  after 
to-morrow." 

CHAP.  IV. 

WHEN  the  young  ladies  at  the  Manor  House  did  not 
get  their  dresses  from  London,  a  dressmaker  came  from 
Brighton  to  help  them,  and  all  together  they  sat  sewing 
and  chattering  in  the  work-room.  Maggie  would  take 
a  bow  or  a  flower,  and  moving  it  quickly,  guided  by  the 
instinct  of  a  bird  building  its  nest,  would  find  the  place 
where  it  decorated  the  hat  or  bonnet  best.  Neither 
Sally  nor  Grace  could  do  this,  nor  could  they  drape  a 
skirt  or  fit  a  bodice,  but  they  could  work  well  and  enjoy 
their  work.  But  what  they  enjoyed  more  was  the  op- 
portunity these  working  days  afforded  for  gossip.  Mrs. 
Wood  had  the  Brighton  scandal  at  her  tongue's  tip,  and 
what  she  would  not  tell,  her  niece  told  them  when  her 
aunt  left  the  room.  Secrecy  was  enjoined,  but  some- 
times they  forgot,  and  in  Mrs.  Wood's  presence  alluded 
too  pointedly  to  stories  that  had  not  yet  found  their  way 
beyond  the  precincts  of  the  servants'  hall,  and  then  the 
dressmaker  raised  her  mild  eyes,  and  looked  through 
large  spectacles  at  Susan,  who  sat  biting  her  lips.  Susan 
told  the  young  ladies  of  her  love  affairs ;  they  told  Susan 
of  theirs;  and  the  different  codes  of  etiquette  gave  added 
zest  to  the  anecdotes,  in  themselves  interesting.  The 
story  of  the  young  man  who  had  said,  "  I  am  afraid 
that  parcel  is  too  heavy  for  you,  miss,"  and  had  been 
promised  a  walk  in  the  twilight  on  the  cliff,  evoked 
visions  of  liberty,  and  the  story  of  the  officer  at  the 
Henfield  ball,  with  whom  Sally  had  discovered  a  room 
that  none  knew  of,  did  not  fail  to  impress  the  little 
dressmaker.  They  talked  a  great  deal  about  Frank.  His 
face  and  manner  called  up  the  name,  and  after  a  few 


54 

hesitations  they  used  his  Christian  name  as  they  did 
when  he  came  to  see  them  years  ago. 

"  He  is  a  very  good  fellow — I  don't  say  he  isn't.  No 
one  could  say  he  wasn't  nice-looking,  but  somehow  he 
doesn't  make  you  feel — you  know,  right  down,  you  know, 
through  and  through." 

"  Electricity,"  said  Maggie,  with  a  low,  subtle  laugh, 
and  her  thread  cracked  through  the  straw  of  the  hat. 

"  Yes,"  cried  Sally  boisterously.  "  Electricity,  I  never 
heard  it  called  that  before;  but  it  isn't  a  bad  name  for 
it;  it  is  like  electricity.  When  a  man  looks  at  you — you 
know,  in  a  peculiar  way,  it  goes  right  down  your  back 
from  the  very  crown  of  your  head." 

"  No,  not  down  my  back;  I  feel  it  down  my  chest,  just 
like  forked  lightning.  Isn't  it  horrid?  You  know  that 
it  is  coming  and  you  can't  help  it.  Some  men  fix  their 
eyes  on  you." 

"  It  is  just  when  you  meet  a  man's  eyes — a  man  you 
like,  but  haven't  seen  much  of." 

"  I  don't  think  liking  has  anything  to  do  with  it.  I 
hate  it;  don't  you?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  know  that  I  do.  I  can't  see  anything 
so  disagreeable  as  that  in  it.  'Tis  rather  a  shock,  a  sort 
of  pang." 

Mrs.  Wood  raised  her  mild  face  and  looked  surprised 
through  her  thick  spectacles;  the  merry  niece  bit  her 
lips,  and  strove  to  stay  her  laughter.  Then  Maggie  said: 
"Sue,  have  you  ever  felt  electricity?" 

"  Oh,  miss !  I  don't  think  I  understand,"  and  she 
glanced  at  her  aunt  over  the  hem  she  was  running. 

"  Now,  come,  tell  the  truth.  You  mean  to  say  you 
never  felt  electricity?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  ever  did,  miss." 

"  I  don't  believe  you.  Not  when  that  nice  young  man 
you  were  telling  us  about  looked  at  you?  Come,  now, 
tell  the  truth." 


66 

"Well,  miss,  I  don't  know — I  thought  it  was  very 
revolting." 

Mrs.  Wood  said  nothing;  with  her  hand  in  suspended 
gesture  and  her  spectacles  a-glimmer  with  round  surprise, 
she  sat  looking  at  Miss  Maggie.  Her  reveries,  however, 
were  soon  cut  short,  for  Sally  not  only  asked  her  if  she 
had  ever  experienced  the  doubtful  pleasure  of  electricity, 
but  advised  her  when  she  returned  home  to  try  if  her 
husband's  looks  could  thrill  her. 

"  I  don't  think  the  conversation  at  all  nice,"  said 
Grace,  who  had  up  to  the  present  taken  no  part  either 
by  looks,  or  words,  or  laughter. 

"  Who  cares  what  you  think  ?  You  used  to  be  fond 
enough  of  sitting  out  dances  with  him.  You  mean  to 
say  he  never  gave  you  electricity?  " 

"  No,  never." 

"  Then  I  hope  Berkins  will,"  said  Sally,  with  a  coarse 
laugh. 

The  association  of  Berkins  with  electricity  proved  so 
generally  ludicrous  that  Mrs.  Wood,  conscious  of  the 
respect  she  owed  Miss  Brookes,  pretended  to  look  for 
her  handkerchief,  and  it  was  for  a  moment  doubtful 
if  the  spectacles  would  preserve  their  gravity.  Tears 
started  to  Grace's  eyes,  and  she  bent  over  her  work  to 
hide  them  from  her  sisters,  which  was  unnecessary,  for 
Maggie  and  Sally  were  absorbed  in  past  experiences. 

"What  about  Frank.''  "  Sally  asked,  and  Susan  looked 
up  curious  to  hear  Maggie's  answer. 

"  Well,"  said  Maggie,  staring  at  the  window,  "  Frank 
is  very  good-looking,  but  I  don't  think  that  he  electrifies 
one  ...  he  did  once." 

"And  when  was  that?  "  said  Sally. 

"  You  remember  the  first  time  he  came  to  stay  here  ? 
Willy  brought  him  down  from  London.  We  went  to 
bed  early  and  left  them  playing  billiards;  I  lay  awake 
waiting  to  hear  them  come  up   the   stairs,   and   as   he 


66 

passed  my  room  Frank  stopped  and  I  thought  he  was 
coming  in.  I  felt  it  all  down  my  spine,  but  never  after- 
wards.    You  see,  I  didn't  know  him  much  then." 

"  And  Jimmy  .^" 

"  I  never  liked  Jimmy." 

"  If  you  don't  like  him  why  trouble  about  him?  "  Sally 
replied  in  her  usually  defiant  manner.  "  You  always 
take  good  care  to  trouble  about  my  men.  You  tried  all 
you  could  to  get  Jimmy  away  from  me,  yet  you  pretend 
to  father  that  you  never  flirted  with  him." 

"  I  didn't  flirt  with  him ;  once  a  young  man  looks  at 
you  you  think  no  one  must  speak  to  him  but  yourself. 
If  young  Meason  asks  me  to  dance  with  him,  I  cannot 
refuse;  I  am  not  going  to  make  myself  ridiculous  though 
you  were  to  look  all  the  daggers  in  the  world  at  me,  but 
as  for  flirting  with  him  I  never  cared  enough  about 
him." 

"  And  what  about  meeting  him  in  London }  " 

Maggie  coloured  a  little,  and  repudiated  the  accusa- 
tion. 

"  You  told  him  you  were  going  to  London,  and  you 
asked  him  if  he  were  going,  and  what  he  would  be  doing 
that  day.     I  don't  know  what  more  you  co\ild  say." 

"  I  never  said  any  such  thing." 

"  I  have  it  from  his  own  lips." 

"  It  isn't  true ;  I  will  ask  him  to  your  face  if  he  ever 
said  such  a  thing;  I  will  tell  father  that." 

"  Well,  there's  no  use  in  quarrelling,"  said  Grace,  "  and 
I  wouldn't  advise  you  to  worry  father  about  it.  You 
know  he  can't  stand  the  name  of  Meason.  It  seems  to 
me  that  neither  of  you  care  much  whom  you  flirt  with, 
you  like  so  many  young  men." 

"  It  is  better  to  like  a  dozen  young  men  than  one  old 
one." 

"  I  shan't  marry  Mr.  Berkins,  no  matter  what  you  say. 


»7 

However,  you  can't  accuse  me  of  interfering  in  your 
affairs." 

"  No,  you  don't." 

"  No  more  do  I.  If  you  want  Frank,  take  him,  only 
don't  come  sneaking  after  Charley.  I  don't  want  Frank; 
I  don't  care  twopence  about  him.  If  you  want  to  see  it 
out  with  him,  I  shan't  interfere;  only  don't  you  come 
interfering  with  me  and  Jimmy,  or  Charley  either." 

Maggie  did  not  like  the  idea  of  Sally  getting  two  to 
her  one.  She  would  have  liked  to  have  introduced  a  pro- 
viso about  Alfred,  but  the  title  Mount  Rorke  slipped 
between  her  thoughts,  and  she  refrained.  She  knew  the 
present  treaty  secured  her  immunity  from  Sally  only  so 
long  as  the  affections  and  attentions  of  Jimmy  and  Char- 
ley showed  no  signs  of  declension,  and  she  was  aware  that 
her  promise  would  only  hold  good  so  long  as  Frank  in- 
terested and  Charley  remained  away  in  London. 

The  canary  that  had  been  twittering,  now  burst  forth 
into  long  and  prolonged  shrillings.  Grace  folded  up  her 
work  along  her  knees;  and  holding  it  in  her  hand  like 
a  roll  of  music,  she  said  that  they  would  never  hear  the 
end  of  this  tennis  party. 

"  I  don't  see  why  father  should  ever  know  anything 
about  it,  he  has  taken  that  horrid  old  Joseph  with  him, 
he  never  says  more  than  a  few  words  to  the  footman, 
and  he  never  sees  the  cook  or  housemaid.  We  have  all 
to-morrow  to  get  the  house  straight." 

"  It  is  not  certain  that  he  is  going  to  stay  the  night  in 
London." 

"  Yes  it  is.  Don't  fidget.  Have  you  got  the  wine 
out?  We  should  have  a  dozen  of  champagne.  Mind 
you,  make  no  mistake;  '80,  that  is  the  wine  you  must 
get.  Jimmy  is  most  particular  what  he  drinks,  and  Al- 
fred has  the  most  frightful  headaches  if  he  drinks  any- 
thing but  the  very  best.  I  hope  he'll  find  the  '80  all 
right." 


68 

"  That's  father's  favourite  wine ;  you  mean  to  say  that 
he  won't  miss  it?  Then  the  port  and  Burgundy  and 
cherry  brandy — I  won't  take  the  responsibility." 

"  Nobody  asked  you.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  return 
the  keys  to  Maggie  that  you  took  from  her." 

"  I  don't  think  father  will  be  as  angry  as  you  think, 
Grace;  besides  there's  no  drawing  back  now  the  invita- 
tions are  out.  I  think  it  would  be  better  to  tell  him 
that  we  had  a  few  friends  in  for  tennis.  We  needn't  tell 
him  who  was  there — we  will  suppress  the  name  of  the 
Southdown  Road  people;  and  we  can  take  the  bottles 
out  from  the  back.  The  wine  won't  be  missed  for  a  long 
time,  and  we  will  invent  some  better  excuse  before  then. 
We  will  say  that  two  bottles  were  drunk  at  this  party 
and  three  at  that;  and  further  than  that  we  can't  re- 
member." 

"  And  what  about  the  peaches  ?  There  are  only  a  few 
ripe,  and  Sally  says  she'll  want  them  all.  Father  has 
been  looking  forward  to  them  for  weeks  and  weeks." 

"  He'll  have  to  do  without  them ;  if  he  wants  peaches, 
he  had  better  bring  some  down  from  Covent  Garden." 

A  knock  was  heard  at  the  door.  "  Please  Miss,  Mr. 
Escott  is  in  the  drawing-room." 

"  Tell  him  I  will  be  downstairs  in  a  moment,"  cried 
Maggie. 

"  Now  off  you  go,  my  Lady  Mount  Rorke,"  said  Sally, 
who  had  already  begun  to  regret  her  promises,  and  to 
consider  if  she  had  not  better  break  them. 

Maggie  asked  him  what  train  he  came  down  by,  then 
she  called  the  dog;  "  Come  here,  my  beautiful  boy,  come 
and  kiss  me."  The  bull-dog  growled  and  wagged  his 
tail. 

"  He  won't  hurt  you ;  'tis  only  his  way  of  talking." 

Maggie  laughed,  and  they  walked  out  on  the  green 
sward.  "  I  suppose  you've  been  to  a  great  many  balls 
this  season.''  " 


89 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  have ;  a  few,  perhaps.  I  am 
glad  to  get  away  from  town,  I  like  no  place  like  this. 
I  don't  know  if  it  is  the  place  or  the  associations." 

"  You  are  used  to  much  finer  places.  I  can  fancy 
Moimt  Rorke — the  lakes  and  the  mountains;  somehow 
I  think  I  can  see  it.  Isn't  it  strange,  there  are  certain 
things  and  places  you  can  realise  so  much  better  than 
others,  and  for  no  very  understandable  reason?  " 

"  Yes,  that  is  so,"  said  Frank,  obviously  pleased  by 
the  remark.  Then,  after  a  pause,  "  Mount  Rorke  is  a 
pretty  place,  and  I  don't  think  I  could  live  long  away 
from  it.  After  a  time  I  always  find  myself  sighing  for 
the  bleakness  and  barrenness  of  the  West.  The  hedge- 
rows of  England  are  pretty  enough;  but  I  hate  the  brick 
buildings." 

"  What  kind  of  buildings  do  you  have  in  Ireland  ?  " 

"  Everything  is  built  of  grey  stone,  a  cold  grey  tint 
on  a  background  of  green  pasture  lands  and  blue  moun- 
tains. I  daresay  you  wouldn't  like  it.  It  would  recall 
nothing  to  you,  but  when  I  think  of  it,  much  less  see 
it,  I  re-live  my  childhood  all  over  again.  I  am  a  great 
person  for  old  times.  That  is  the  reason  I  like  coming 
down  here.  I  knew  you  all  so  long  ago;  how  well  I  can 
remember  you — three  dark  little  things.  You  used  to 
sit  on  my  knee." 

"  And  do  you  find  nothing  nice  in  the  present  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do ;  it  is  nice  to  walk  in  the  gar- 
den with  you,  but  it  seems  to  me  you  have  all  moved 
away  from  me  a  little.  Grace  is  engaged,  you  are  en- 
gaged  " 

"Who  said  I  was  engaged.''  " 

"  Ha,  ha,  you  see  I  hear  everything.  What  is  his  name 
—Alfred?" 

"  I  suppose  Sally  told  you." 

"  I  won't  tell  you  who  told  me,  I  never  betray  secrets. 
You  had  a  desperate  flirtation  two  years  ago,  and  the 


60 

man  had  to  go  away,  and  you  promised  to  wait  for  him." 

"  I  don't  mind  telling  you — I  did  meet  a  man  about 
two  years  ago  whom  I  rather  liked;  I  used  to  see  a  great 
deal  of  him  at  tennis  parties  and  balls;  he  used  to  ask 
me  to  marry  him.  He  wanted  me  to  engage  myself  to 
him,  and  I  told  him  it  would  be  much  better  to  wait  and 
see  what  father  would  say," 

"And  what  did  your  father  say.''  " 

"  Father,  he  never  knew  anything  about  it.  You  may 
as  well  tell  me,  I  know  it  was  Sally.  I  suppose  she  told 
you  I  was  very  much  in  love  with  him  ?  " 

"  She  said,  at  least,  the  person  who  told  me  said,  that 
you  would  never  care  for  any  one  else." 

"  So  you've  been  talking  about  me  though  you  prom- 
ised you  wouldn't  talk  any  more,"  Maggie  said  to  herself. 
"  All  right,  my  lady — very  well,  we  shall  see." 

"  Grace  is  waving  her  parasol  to  us.  Lunch  must  be 
ready." 

Maggie  and  Grace  had  calculated  that  if  they 
could  limit  the  champagne  to  half  a  dozen  bottles 
they  would  be  able  to  hide  the  deficit  from 
their  father's  scrutiny;  but  the  servants  seemed 
to  be  always  filling  the  glasses  of  the  South- 
down Road  people,  and  lunch  was  not  half  over 
when  they  heard  the  fourth  bottle  go  pop.  Maggie 
looked  at  Sally  across  the  pile  of  peaches,  but  Sally  had 
no  ears  for  the  report,  only  for  Jimmy's  voice.  Her  head 
wagged  as  she  talked,  and  Maggie  wondered  if  they  were 
exchanging  napkins  or  rings  beneath  the  table. 

At  that  moment  the  servant  handed  a  letter  on  a  salver 
to  Maggie,  saying,  "  From  Mrs.  Horlock ;  the  servant  is 
waiting  an  answer,  miss."  Grace  trembled.  Sally  whis- 
pered to  Jimmy,  "  What  can  she  want.''  "  In  a  reassuring 
voice  Maggie  said,  "  She  has  heard  we  are  having  a  few 
people  in  to  tennis,  and  she  wants  to  know  if  she  may 
send  us  round  a  young  man;  she  will  come  round  herself 


61 

with  the  General  some  time  during  the  afternoon."  At 
the  mention  of  a  young  man  many  eyes  gleamed,  and 
Sally  said,  "  You  had  better  go  at  once  and  write  a  note 
and  say  that  we  shall  be  delighted."  When  they  went 
into  the  verandah  coffee  was  handed  round,  and  Maggie, 
as  the  gentlemen  lit  their  cigarettes,  said  to  Grace, 
"  Nothing  could  have  happened  better ;  father  is  sure  to 
hear  of  this,  we  couldn't  have  kept  it  from  him:  now 
we  can  say  Mrs.  Horlock  was  our  chaperon.  None  will 
know  when  she  came,  or  when  she  went  away."  Then 
turning  to  her  company,  Maggie  said,  "  Now  gentlemen, 
as  soon  as  you  have  finished  your  cigarettes  we  will 
begin." 

Sally  not  only  insisted  on  playing,  but  on  playing 
with  Jimmy;  and  Grace,  who  was  striving  to  struggle 
into  the  position  of  Miss  Brookes,  could  do  nothing  but 
set  the  girl  in  the  florid  dress  and  the  man  who  stood 
next  to  her  to  play  against  them.  The  garden  seemed 
to  absorb  the  girls,  but  Maggie,  catching  sight  of  Mrs. 
Horlock,  went  to  meet  her. 

Mrs.  Horlock  was  sixty,  but  her  figure  was  like  a 
girl's.  She  led  a  blind  pug  in  a  complicated  leading 
apparatus,  and  several  other  pugs  in  various  stages  of 
fat  and  decrepitude  followed  her.  It  was  not  long 
before  she  raised  a  discussion  on  hydrophobia,  defend- 
ing the  disease  from  all  the  charges  of  horror  and  con- 
tagion that  had  been  urged  against  it,  narrating  vehe- 
mently how  a  mad  dog  had  died  in  her  arms  licking  her 
hands  and  face,  and  appealing  to  the  General,  who  de- 
nounced muzzling;  but  when  the  mangy  mastiff  came 
near  him  he  whispered  to  Frank,  "  I  wish  they  were 
all  shot.  You  must  come  and  see  us ;  you  must  come  and 
see  us;  I  have  a  pretty  little  place  in  the  Southdown 
Road  (dreadful  place  to  mention  here,  they  don't  like 
it;  of  course  the  people  there  aren't  all  quite  the  thing, 
but  what  are  you  to  do,  you  know?).     Lunch  at  two. 


62 

dinner  at  eight — old  Indians^  you  know.  I  have  every- 
thing I  want.  Too  many  animals^  perhaps,  but  that 
can't  be  helped." 

"  Do  you  live  here  all  the  year .''  " 

"  Yes,  all  the  year  round.  We  don't  go  away  much. 
We  have  everything  here — coach-houses,  horses,  you'll 
see  when  you  come.  The  only  thing  I  want  is  a  little 
occupation,  a  little  something  to  bring  me  out,  you  know. 
I  read  the  Morning  Post  every  morning,  and  I  have  the 
St.  James's  in  the  evening;  but  then  there  is  the  middle 
of  the  day,"  and,  with  laughter  full  of  genial  kindness 
and  goodwill,  the  General  repeated  this  phrase :  "  I  want 
a  little  something  to  bring  me  out,  you  know." 

Forty  years  of  Indian  sun!  Balls  in  the  Government 
House  in  Calcutta!  Viceroys,  tigers,  horse-racing,  ele- 
phants, jealousies,  flirtations,  deaths,  all  now  forgotten, 
and  if  not  forgotten,  at  rest;  and  now  glad  to  watch  life 
unfolding  itself  again  in  an  English  village,  this  old 
couple  sat  in  the  calm  sunlight  of  an  English  garden, 
relics  of  another  generation,  emblems  of  an  England 
drawing  to  a  close. 

At  five  o'clock  Grace  was  busy  at  the  tea-table;  and 
very  hot  and  moist  Sally  threw  herself  into  a  cane  chair. 
Maggie,  who  had  suddenly  appeared  upon  the  scene, 
arranged  some  fresh  sets  in  which  she  and  Frank  did 
not  take  part — she  having  promised  to  walk  with  him; 
and  they  went  towards  the  shade  of  the  sycamores.  She 
had  neglected  him  nearly  the  whole  day,  and  he  was 
vexed  with  her.  But  she  excused  herself  volubly,  ac- 
cusing Sally  of  indifference  to  all  things  except  her  own 
pleasures,  and  impressed  upon  him  that  it  was  her  duty 
to  show  some  politeness  to  Mrs.  Horlock's  friend. 

"  Sally  would  play  tennis,  she  played  two  sets,  three 
if  I  am  not  mistaken,  and  she  never  left  Jimmy's  side. 
She  took  no  notice  of  any  one;  for  that  reason  I  hate 
having  people  to  the  house  when  she  is  here;  everything 


68 

devolves  upon  Grace  and  me.  It  is  really  too  bad. 
Father  wouldn't  mind  our  giving  this  party  at  all,  if  it 
weren't  for  him.  If  he  hears  that  he  was  here,  well,  I 
don't  know  what  will  happen." 

"  He  doesn't  look  quite  a  gentleman,  does  he  ?  He  is 
a  ship's  mate,  isn't  he }  " 

"  Yes,  but  it  isn't  that ;  father  cannot  bear  those 
Southdown  Road  people.  A  lot  of  young  men  live  there 
— quite  as  good  as  ourselves,  no  doubt,  but  they  are  all 
so  poor,  and  father  thinks  of  nothing  but  money.  And 
Sally  meets  them.  When  she  goes  out  driving  in  the 
cart  she  picks  them  up,  and  they  go  off  together.  Father 
doesn't  know  any  of  them,  and  he  says  they  laugh  at 
him  when  he  goes  to  the  station  in  the  morning.  'Tisn't 
true,  it  is  only  his  imagination;  but  I  can  quite  well  un- 
derstand his  feelings.  You  know  Sally  won't  give  way 
in  anything.  Once  she  ran  into  the  kitchen,  and  told 
cook  to  put  back  the  dinner,  so  that  she  might  run  down 
the  slonk  to  finish  her  conversation  with  him.  Of  course 
father  was  mad  at  that,  coming  home  tired  from  the  City, 
and  finding  that  his  dinner  had  been  put  back.  You  saw 
the  way  they  went  on  at  lunch,  sitting  close  together." 

"  We  were  all  sitting  close  together." 

"  Yes,  but  not  like  they  were.  And  all  that  nonsense 
with  their  napkins  under  the  table.  If  you  didn't  see  it, 
so  much  the  better.  I  thought  everybody  saw  it.  I 
wish  Sally  wouldn't  do  it.  Father,  as  you  know,  has  a 
lot  of  money  to  leave,  and  if  she  did  really  go  too  far  I 
fear  he  would  cut  her  off." 

"  But  she  never  would  go  too  far." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so ;  I  am  sure  Sally  wouldn't  do 
anything  that  was  really  wrong,  but  she  is  very  im- 
prudent." 

"  How  do  you  mean.''  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  ought  to  tell  you." 


64 

"  I  promise  not  to  tell  any  one — you  know  you  can 
trust  me." 

"  Well,  she  brings  people  up  to  her  room." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  her  bedroom  ?  " 

"  She  says  you  can't  call  it  a  bedroom,  but  she  sleeps 
there  for  all  that.  She  covers  up  the  bed  and  makes  it 
look  like  a  couch;  she  keeps  birds  and  dogs  there;  Flos- 
sie had  her  puppies  there.  That's  her  room,"  said  Mag- 
gie, lifting  one  of  the  boughs.  "  I  shouldn't  be  surprised 
if  Jimmy  were  there  with  her  now." 

The  foliage  glinted  in  the  simset,  and  as  Maggie  stood 
pointing,  still  holding  the  bough,  the  picture  flashed  upon 
Frank,  and  he  said :  "  Oh,  how  pretty  you  are  now ! 
How  I  should  like  to  paint  you !  "  And  a  moment  after 
he  said,  interested,  solely  interested  in  sentimental  affec- 
tion, "Sally's  ideas  of  love  seem  to  me  very  funny;  if 
she  really  loves  Meason,  why  doesn't  she  marry  him?  " 

"  He  has  no  money,  and  father  would  never  hear  of  it." 

"  Never  hear  of  it !  If  I  loved  a  girl,  nothing  in  the 
world  would  prevent  my  marrying  her." 

"  I  wonder  if  that's  true,"  said  Maggie,  and  she  let 
go  the  bough  and  stood  facing  him,  her  hands  clasped 
behind  her  back. 

"  Of  course  it  is.  What  is  life  for  if  it  isn't  to  get  the 
woman  we  love  ?  " 

"  It  is  nice  to  hear  you  say  so ;  but  I  am  afraid  very 
few  young  men  think  like  you  nowadays.  One  woman 
is  the  same  as  another  to  them." 

"  I  cannot  understand  any  one  thinking  so.  If  it 
were  so,  the  whole  charm  would  be  lost." 

So  the  young  people  talked,  and  lost  in  the  charm  of 
each  thrilling  minute  they  walked  through  the  shadows 
and  darkening  leaves.  The  soft  garden  echoed  with  the 
sound  of  a  girl's  voice  crying,  "  Cuckoo,  cuckoo,"  and 
the  white  dresses  flew  over  the  sward,  and  the  young 
men  ran  after  them  and  caught  them.     They  were  play- 


65 

ing  hide  and  seek.  Excited  beyond  endurance,  Triss 
barked  loudly,  and  forms  were  seen  flying  precipitately. 

"  Tie  him  up  to  this  tree,"  said  Maggie. 

"  No,  no,  better  take  him  to  the  house,"  said  Frank; 
"  it  would  make  him  savage  to  tie  him  up." 

When  the  ninth  bottle  of  champagne  had  been  opened, 
and  the  supper  table  was  noisy,  Frank  whispered  to 
Maggie,  "  Did  you  ever  see  Macbeth?  " 

"Yes,  but  why.?" 

"  Because  I  can't  help  thinking  what  a  splendid  oc- 
casion it  would  be  for  Banquo's  ghost  to  appear." 

Maggie  pressed  his  hand  and  laughed. 

Soon  after  the  sound  of  wheels  was  heard.  Grace 
turned  pale,  Sally  said :  "  Who  would  have  thought  it  t  " 
A  moment  after  Mr.  Brookes,  with  Berkins  and  Willy 
behind  him,  entered.  He  stood  amazed,  and  seeing  that 
the  tears  were  mounting  to  his  eyes,  Maggie  said: 
"  Father,  how  tired  and  faint  you  look.  We  thought 
you  wouldn't  be  coming  home  to-night.  Do  sit  down 
and  have  a  glass  of  wine."  But  neither  winning  words 
nor  ways  could  soothe  this  storm,  and  in  reply  to  a 
question  from  Berkins,  Mr.  Brookes  declared  passion- 
ately that  he  knew  none  of  the  young  men  who  came  to 
his  house. 


CHAP.  V. 

"FATHER'S  just  gone  downstairs.  I  think  we  had  bet- 
ter wait  a  minute  or  two.  In  that  way  we  shall  escape 
a  scolding.     Father  won't  miss  the  ten  o'clock." 

"  Not  a  bad  idea.  You  are  always  up  to  some  cunning 
dodge.     What's  the  time.?  " 

"  Twenty  minutes  to  nine.  I'll  slip  down  the  passage 
and  tell  Grace  to  go  down  and  give  him  his  breakfast. 
He  won't  say  anything  to  her;  he  knows  well  that  since 


66 

Fatty  went  to  India  she  wouldn't  see  a  soul  if  she  could 
help  it." 

"  Father  never  says  anything  to  you  either ;  you  tell 
him  a  lot  of  lies,  and  leave  him  to  understand  that  I  do 
everything." 

"  That's  not  true ;  I  never  speak  against  you  to  father ; 
but  at  the  same  time  I  must  say  that  if  it  weren't  for 
you  we  could  do  as  we  liked.  You  don't  try  to  manage 
father." 

"  Manage  him,  indeed !  that's  what  I  can't  bear  in  you, 
you're  always  trying  to  manage  some  one;  I  hate  the 
word." 

"  You  got  out  of  bed  the  wrong  side  this  morning. 
However,  I  must  go  and  tell  Grace  to  go  down  at  once, 
or  father  will  be  ringing  for  us." 

"  What  did  she  say }  "  said  Sally,  when  Maggie  re- 
turned. 

"  *Tis  all  right ;  I  got  her  to  go,  and  she  said  she  was 
always  being  made  a  cat's-paw  of.  I  assure  you  it  wasn't 
easy  to  persuade  her  to  go  down  to  father,  but  I  told 
her  she  might  be  the  means  of  averting  a  very  serious 
row. 

"  I  suppose  you  said  there  was  no  counting  on  what 
answers  I  might  make  to  father  ?  " 

This  was  exactly  what  Maggie  had  said. 

"Very  well;  you  are  always  objecting  to  what  I  do 
and  the  way  I  do  it.  I  wish  you  would  go  and  do  things 
yourself.  You  think  of  nothing  but  yourself,  or  some 
young  man  you  are  after.  I  wouldn't  do  what  you  did 
yesterday.  I  wouldn't  go  sneaking  round  the  garden 
with  a  young  man  I  had  never  seen  before." 

Maggie  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  went  on  dressing. 
Sally,  who  had  taken  a  seat  on  the  bed,  watched  her. 
She  thought  how  she  might  best  pursue  the  quarrel,  but 
her  stomach  called  her  thoughts  from  her  sister,  and  she 


67 

said :  "  I  don't  know  how  you  feel,  but  I  am  dying  of 
hunger.    What  time  is  it  now  ?  " 

"  Nine  o'clock." 

"  Another  half-hour.  I  suppose  he  won't  start  before 
the  half-hour." 

"  Miss,"  said  the  maid,  knocking  at  the  door,  "  Mr. 
Brookes  wants  to  know  if  you  are  coming  down  to  break- 
fast." 

"  Say  that  we  are  not  nearly  ready ;  that  there's  no 
use  waiting  for  us." 

"  I  think  I  had  better  go  back  to  my  room,"  said 
Sally. 

"  I  think  you  had.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  bring  that 
horrid  little  dog  into  my  room.  She  made  a  mess  here 
the  other  day." 

"  That  I  am  sure  she  didn't.  Flossie  is  the  cleanest 
dog  in  the  world." 

"  Clean  or  unclean,  I  would  rather  not  have  her  in  my 
room.  There  she  is  trying  to  drink  out  of  my  jug.  Get 
away,  you  little  beast !  " 

Sally  caught  up  her  dog,  and  marched  out  of  the 
room,  slamming  the  door  after  her. 

"  At  last  I  have  got  rid  of  her,"  thought  Maggie,  and 
she  rolled  and  pinned  up  the  last  plait  of  her  black  hair, 
but  she  did  not  go  down  to  breakfast  until  the  wheels 
grated  on  the  gravel  and  the  carriage  was  heard  moving 
away.  Then  she  begged  Grace  to  tell  her  what  her 
father  had  said. 

"  He  said  his  children  were  persecuting  him,  that  he 
had  not  had  an  hour's  peace  since  their  poor  mother 
died." 

"  Fudge !  Mother  knew  how  to  keep  him  in  order. 
Do  you  remember  when  she  threw  the  carving  knife.''  " 

"  Sally,  for  shame !  How  can  you  speak  of  poor 
mother  so.^  " 


68 

"  You  know  it  is  true.  Hypocrisy.  There  is  no  harm 
in  coming  to  the  point." 

"  It  was  very  nearly  coming  to  the  point/'  said  Mag- 
gie, giggling. 

"Well,  what  else  did  he  say?  " 

"  He  said  he  didn't  know  what  course  he  should  adopt, 
but  that  things  couldn't  go  on  as  they  were;  he  thought 
he  should  write  to  Aimts  Mary  and  Hester,  and  just  as 
he  was  going  out  of  the  door  he  said  that  he'd  prefer  to 
sell  the  whole  place  up  than  continue  living  here  and  be 
the  laughing-stock  of  the  neighbourhood." 

At  these  words  all  looked  frightened,  even  Sally.  She 
flaunted  her  head,  however,  and  said  disdainfully :  "  I 
wonder  he  didn't  speak  of  marrying  again." 

"  Did  he  say  nothing  more.''  "  asked  Maggie,  who  de- 
termined to  know  how  matters  stood. 

"  He  spoke  of  Sally ;  he  said  it  must  be  put  a  stop  to. 
I  don't  know  what  he  has  found  out,  but  I  am  sure  he 
has  found  out  something." 

"Why  didn't  you  ask  him?" 

"  I  did.  He  said  the  way  you  were  carrying  on  with 
young  Meason  was  something  too  disgraceful,  and  that 
every  one  was  talking  of  it;  he  said  that  you  had  been 
seen  crossing  the  canal  locks,  and  that  you  had  spent 
hours  with  him  on  the  beach,  and  he  spoke  about  the 
cart  and  Bamber — I  don't  know  if  you  ever  drove  there 
to  meet  him;  I  couldn't  get  anything  more  out  of  him, 
for  he  began  to  cry." 

"Didn't  he  speak  of  the  party?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  a  great  deal.  He  said  that  henceforth  he 
would  have  none  of  the  Southdown  Road  people,  male 
or  female,  at  the  Manor  House.  I  thought  he  was  go- 
ing to  curse  the  Horlocks;  but  I  reminded  him  of  the 
Viceroys.  As  for  the  Measons,  I  don't  know  what  he 
would  have  said  if  he  hadn't  been  crying." 

"  The  Measons  are  just  as  good  as  we  are,  though 


69 

they  mayn't  be  so  rich.  I  should  like  to  know  who 
has  been  talking  to  him  about  me;  I  wonder  who  told 
him  I  spent  hours  on  the  beach  with  Jimmy;  I  met  him 
once  there  quite  by  accident,  and  we  sat  down  for  ten 
minutes.     I  daresay  it  was  Berkins." 

"  No,  Sally,  don't,"  said  Grace,  clasping  her  hands. 
"  Father  said  that  Maggie  was  nearly  as  bad,  and  was 
a  great  deal  too  much  disposed  towards  young  men." 

"  I  should  think  she  is  indeed ;  I  wonder  what  father 
would  say  if  he  had  seen  her  walking  round  the  garden 
out  of  sight  of  every  one  with  that  fellow,  a  man  she 
had  never  seen  before." 

"  There  is  no  harm  in  walking  round  the  garden  with 
a  man,  but  I  should  like  to  know  what  father  would 
say  if  he  knew  that  you  brought  Jimmy  up  to  your 
bedroom." 

"  My  bedroom  isn't  a  bedroom.  How  dare  you  make 
such  accusations,  how  dare  you?  I  should  not  be  sur- 
prised if  you  were  at  the  bottom  of  all  this.  I  know 
you  are  mad  with  jealousy.  Do  you  think  I  don't  know 
how  you  flirted  with  Jimmy  .f*  Do  you  think  I  didn't  see 
how  you  shifted  Frank  on  to  me  so  that  you  might  walk 
with  Jimmy  to  the  station?  But  I'll  tell  you  what,  I'll 
not  stand  it,  and  if  you  try  to  come  between  me  and 
him  I'll  knock  you  down." 

Sally  sprang  from  her  place  and  raised  her  fist.  Mag- 
gie rushed  from  the  room,  or,  more  correctly  speaking, 
into  the  arms  of  Willy. 

"  What  the  deuce  are  you  up  to  ?  "  cried  this  staid 
young  man,  who  had  been  twisted  round  and  thrown 
against  the  wall. 

"  Oh,  save  me !  Sally  says  she'll  knock  me  down," 
cried  the  girl,  clinging  for  a  moment  to  her  brother's 
shoulder,  but  as  if  conscious  of  the  dubiousness  of  his 
protection,  she  loosed  him  and  fled  upstairs  to  her  room. 

"  What  damned  nonsense  this  is !     The  trouble  young 


70 

girls  are  in  a  house! — Nothing  but  pleasure;  from  one 
year's  end  to  another,  it  is  nothing  but  pleasure.  I  am 
sick  of  it." 

Having  by  such  unusual  emphasis  of  manner  reduced 
his  sisters  to  silence,  Willy  sat  down,  and  chewed  with 
gravity  and  deliberation.  Grace  and  Sally  watched  him. 
After  a  long  and  elaborate  silence  he  put  some  brief 
questions,  and  appeared  to  devote  to  them  the  small  part 
of  his  attention  not  already  engaged  in  the  judicious 
breaking  of  his  bread.  He  did  not  answer  nor  did  he 
comment;  and  when  he  had  finished  eating  he  commenced 
packing  up  his  diary  and  letters  in  a  brown  paper  parcel, 
and  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour  he  walked  up  and  down 
stairs  collecting  and  forgetting;  finally  he  left  the  house 
with  many  parcels. 

As  some  days  are  sweet  and  fugitive,  others  are  obtuse, 
complex,  and  tortuous  as  nightmares — difficult  to  under- 
stand and  well-nigh  impossible  to  relate.  And  the  day 
after  the  tennis  party  was  such  a  day  in  the  Brookes 
household,  nor  did  its  tumult  cease  when  the  lights  were 
turned  out  in  the  billiard-room.  It  was  revived  with 
fierce  gusts  of  passion  and  despair  during  several  suc- 
ceeding days. 

In  the  afternoon  both  Sally  and  Maggie  wanted  to 
go  out  in  the  cart.  The  wrangle  was  a  long  one,  but 
the  argument  of  the  first  eventually  brought  it  to  a  close, 
and  Maggie  was  obliged  again  to  shut  herself  into  her 
room.  Thence  Grace's  solicitations  could  not  move  her, 
and  she  remained  there  until  she  saw  her  father  coming 
up  the  drive;  then  she  ran  down  to  meet  him,  and  made 
a  frank  accusation  of  Sally's  treatment  of  her.  But  he 
was  enthralled  by  his  own  woes,  and  without  even  prom- 
ising her  protection  and  immunity,  at  least  from  her  sis- 
ter's right  arm,  the  old  gentleman  launched  forth  into 
more  than  usual  lamentations. 

He  had  had  a  stormy  interview  with  Berkins  going  up 


71 

in  the  train^  and  Berkins  had  so  upset  him  that  he  had 
not  been  able  to  get  through  any  business  in  the  City. 
Berkins  admitted  of  no  equivocation.  He  had  told  him 
that  he  would  not  allow  the  young  lady  that  was  going 
to  be  his  wife  to  spend  her  days  feasting  and  skylarking 
with  a  lot  of  vulgar  and  penniless  yovmg  men  from  the 
Southdown  Road.  He  had  declared  that  it  was  time  to 
settle  definitely  the  terms  and  the  day  of  the  marriage. 
He  had  been  engaged  now  more  than  two  months,  and 
was  prepared  to  do  his  share;  Mr.  Brookes  must  be  pre- 
pared to  do  his,  viz.,  to  settle  four  hundred  a  year  on  his 
daughter. 

The  idea  of  parting  for  ever  with  so  much  of  his  money 
convulsed  Mr.  Brookes.  He  burst  into  tears,  and  their 
bitterness  was  neither  assuaged  nor  softened  by  Grace's 
rather  haughty  statement  that  she  didn't  care  at  all  for 
Mr.  Berkins,  and  was  not  at  all  sure  whether  she  would 
have  him  or  not. 

"  So,  father,  you  may  be  able  to  keep  your  money." 
"  But  did  any  one  ever  know  me  to  think  of  myself }  " 
and  he  drew  his  silk  handkerchief  forth.  In  the  new 
trouble,  suddenly  created,  all  other  considerations  were 
lost,  and  Grace  became  the  centre  of  many  conflicting 
interests;  everybody  asked  if  this  marriage  so  long 
looked  forward  to  was  going  to  tumble  into  ruin  among 
so  many  ruins.''  At  dinner  Willy  seemed  to  consider 
himself  called  from  the  problem  of  perfect  mastication, 
and  he  said  a  few  words  intended  to  allay  this  new  family 
excitement;  but  his  efforts  were  vain,  for  it  had  occurred 
to  Mr.  Brookes  that  he  might  find  calm  in  a  bottle  of 
'34  port.  There  were  a  few  bottles  left  which  he  appre- 
ciated at  their  right  value.  He  rang  for  the  wine,  and 
old  Joseph  announced,  with  all  the  intolerable  indiffer- 
ence of  a  well-trained  servant,  that  the  young  gentleman 
had  drunk  it  all  up  yesterday.  Mr.  Brookes  kept  his 
temper  better  than  the  girls  anticipated,  and  it  was  not 


72 

until  he  had  drunk  a  bottle  of  a  latter-day  wine  that 
he  seemed  to  realise  the  wrong  that  had  been  done  to 
him.  He  begged  of  Willy  to  listen  to  him,  and  he 
talked  so  vehemently,  and  cried  so  bitterly,  and  laughed 
so  joyously,  and  declared  so  often  that  it  would  be  all 
the  same  a  hundred  years  hence,  that  letters  and  diary 
had  to  be  packed  away  in  the  brown  paper  parcel,  and 
all  work  abandoned  for  that  evening.  The  next  day 
and  the  next  passed  in  continual  quarrel  and  argument, 
and  at  the  end  of  the  week  the  aunts  were  summoned. 

Aunt  Mary's  features  were  sharp,  her  eyes  were 
bright  and  she  sat  bolt  upright  on  the  sofa,  her  hands 
crossed  over  a  shawl  drawn  tightly  about  her. 

"  Now,  my  dear  James,"  she  said,  "  I  am  very  sorry 
for  you;  of  course  I  am.  I  know  it  is  very  trying,  but 
there  is  no  use  in  sitting  there  lamenting.  Put  up  your 
silk  handkerchief  and  come  to  the  point.  We  all  know 
it  wUl  be  the  same  a  hundred  years  hence,  but  in  the 
meantime  you  don't  want  your  dinner  put  back,  so  that 
Sally  may  continue  her  flirtations  in  the  slonk,"  and 
Aunt  Mary  burst  into  a  merry  peal  of  laughter. 

"  You  are  most  unsympathetic,  I  never  knew  one  so 
unsympathetic;  you  were  always  so,  you'll  never 
change." 

"  Unsympathetic,"  said  Aimt  Mary,  shaking  with 
laughter ;  "  how  can  you  say  so  ?  I  have  never  done 
anything  all  my  life  but  listen  to  you  and  sympathise 
with  you.  When  you  were  a  boy  and  sold  my  books  to 
the  boys  at  your  school,  and  when  you  were  a  young  man 
and  took  my  poor  husband  to  oyster  shops — you  remem- 
ber the  stories  you  used  to  tell  me?  " 

Mr.  Brookes  waved  his  handkerchief,  and  Aunt  Hes- 
ter, who  was  a  spinster,  cast  down  her  eyes  and  fidgeted 
with  some  papers  which  she  had  taken  from  her  hand- 
basket. 


78 

"  Of  course,  if  my  afflictions  are  only  a  subject  for 
laughter " 

"  I  am  not  laughing  at  your  afflictions,  my  dear  James. 
I  laughed  because  you  said  I  was  not  a  sympathetic 
listener.  You  used  to  think  me  so  once."  Then  be- 
coming instantly  serious.  Aunt  Mary  said :  "  Of  course 
I  think  this  is  a  matter  of  great  importance — the  health, 
the  welfare  of  my  dear  nieces,  and  your  happiness." 

"  And  their  salvation,"  murmured  Aunt  Hester. 

"  If  I  did  not  think  it  important,  do  you  think  I  would 
have  left  home,  and  at  such  a  time,  when  I  am  most 
wanted?  I  always  said  that  that  big  place  would  kill 
me,  I  never  wanted  to  leave  the  Poplars;  a  little  place 
like  that  is  no  trouble — my  greenhouse,  a  few  servants, 
and  just  as  I  had  got  everything  to  look  nice — I  could 
do  it  all  in  a  few  hours;  but  now  I  am  never  still,  there 
is  always  something  to  be  done.  No  one  can  take  up 
my  work.  I  am  behindhand;  oh,  I  assure  you  when  I  go 
back  I  shall  be  afraid  to  go  into  the  greenhouse.  I  am 
worn  out,  I  really  am;  it  never  ends.  In  a  big  house 
like  Woborn  one  is  always  behindhand.  The  days  aren't 
long  enough,  that's  the  fact  of  it;  when  one  thinks  one 
is  getting  through  one  thing  one  is  called  away  to 
another.  *  Please,  mum,  the  cook  would  like  to  speak 
with  you  for  a  moment.*  '  There  is  no  tea  in  the  house, 
mum.'  *  What !  is  all  the  tea  I  gave  out  last  week  gone  ?  * 
*  Yes,  mum.  There  was,  you  remember,  the  dressmaker 
here  three  days,  and  we  had  Mrs.  Jones  in  to  help.  And 
we  shall  want  another  piece  of  cheese  for  the  servants* 
hall.*  I  don't  know  how  it  is  with  you,  but  at  Woborn 
the  cloth  is  never  off  the  table  in  the  servants'  hall. 
They  have  five  meals  a  day — breakfast  at  eight,  and 
they  won't  eat  cold  bacon,  they  must  have  it  hot;  of 
course  the  waste  is  something  fearful;  at  eleven  they 
have  beer  and  cheese;  at  one  there  is  dinner;  at  five  they 
have  tea;   and  at  nine  supper.     Five  meals  a  day — ^it 


74 

really  is  terrible,  it  is  wicked,  it  really  is!  You  have 
had  none  of  these  troubles,  Hester,  and  you  may  think 
yourself  very  lucky. 

"We  have  just  got  rid  of  our  cook;  the  trouble  she 
gave  us,  it  really  is  beyond  words.  She  said  she  was 
troubled  with  fits,  hysteria,  or  something  of  that  sort — 
at  least  that  is  the  reason  she  gave  for  her  conduct.  I 
knew  there  was  something  wrong,  I  could  see  it  in  her 
eyes.  I  said :  '  This  is  not  right ;  it  can't  be  right.'  One 
night  she  left  the  dinner  half  cooked  and  went  roaming 
all  over  the  country;  she  came  back  the  next  afternoon, 
and  I  found  her  baking.  Then  there  was  Robinson.  Do 
you  remember  the  pretty  housemaid?  You  saw  her 
when  you  were  at  Woborn.  I  am  sure  she  must  have 
had  gentle  blood  in  her  veins;  she  wasn't  a  bit  like  a 
servant,  so  elegant  and  graceful.  Those  soft  blue  eyes 
of  hers.  I  often  used  to  look  at  them  and  think  how 
beautiful  they  were.  Well,  she  fell  madly  in  love  with 
West.  Notwithstanding  his  bandy  legs,  there  was  some- 
thing fascinating  about  him.  He  had  a  way  about  him 
that  the  maid-servants  used  to  like;  Robinson  wasn't  the 
first.  Well,  she  completely  lost  her  head,  perfectly 
frantic — frantic;  her  eyes  on  fire.  I  saw  it  at  once;  you 
know  I  am  pretty  sharp.  I  just  look  round,  one  look 
round;  I  see  it  all,  I  take  it  all  in.  I  said:  *  This  is  not 
right;  this  cannot  be  right.  Robinson  is  a  respectable 
girl.'  Her  people  I  knew  to  be  most  respectable  people 
in  Chichester;  I  had  heard  all  about  them  through  the 
Eastwicks.  I  said,  '  Robinson,  you  must  go,  I  will  give 
you  a  month's  wages,  but  you  must  go  back  to  your 
people.  You  know  why  I  am  sending  you  away;  it  is 
for  your  own  good,  otherwise  I  am  sorry  to  part  with 
you;  but  you  must  go.' 

"  Robinson  didn't  say  much,  she  was  always  rather 
haughty,  a  reserved  sort  of  girl;  but  soon  after — I  al- 
ways hear  everything — I  heard  that  she  had  not  gone 


75 

back  to  her  people,  but  was  living  in  lodgings  in 
Brighton,  and  that  West  used  to  go  and  see  her.  I 
didn't  say  anything  about  it  to  West,  but  he  saw  there 
was  something  wrong.  When  I  told  him  to  put  the  car- 
riage to,  he  said, '  Yes,  mum,  where  to,  mum  ?  '  *  Brighton.' 
I  could  see  he  saw  there  was  something  wrong,  and 
when  I  told  him  not  to  put  the  carriage  up,  but  to  drive 
up  and  down  the  King's  Road,  and  that  I  would  meet 
him  in  about  an  hour  at  the  bottom  of  West  Street,  he 
looked  so  frightened  that  I  could  hardly  help  laughing; 
he  did  look  so  comical,  for  he  knew  now  that  I  was  going 
to  see  Robinson.  (Here  the  remembrance  of  West 
proved  too  much  for  Aunt  Mary,  and  she  shook  with 
laughter.)  Of  course  if  I  had  let  him  put  up  the  horses 
he  would  have  run  round  to  Robinson's  and  warned  her 
that  I  was  coming.  Oh,  I  shall  never  forget  that  day! 
It  was  broiling,  the  sun  came  down  on  the  flagstones  in 
those  narrow  little  back  streets,  and  there  was  I  toiling, 
toiling  up  that  dreadful  hill,  inquiring  out  the  way.  I 
found  the  street,  it  was  on  the  very  top  of  the  hill:  such 
a  poor  miserable  place  you  never  saw.  Such  a  dreadful 
old  woman  opened  the  door  to  me,  and  I  said,  *  Is  Miss 
Robinson  in?'  She  said,  'Yes.'  I  coulu  hear  Robinson 
whispering  over  the  banisters,  saying,  '  No,  no,  no,  say 
I  am  out.'  And  then  I  said,  '  It  is  no  use,  Robinson,  I 
must  see  you,  and  I  will  not  leave  this  place  untU  I  have 
seen  you.'  I  went  upstairs  to  her  room.  At  first  she 
was  rather  haughty,  rather  inclined  to  impertinence.  She 
said,  '  Mum,  you  have  no  right  to  come  after  me — you 
sent  me  away;  I  am  looking  out  for  a  place  in  Brighton 
— I  don't  want  to  go  back  to  my  people.'  I  said,  *  Rob- 
inson, it  is  no  use  trying  to  deceive  me,  I  know  very 
well  why  you  are  in  Brighton;  no  good  can  come  of  this, 
it  is  nothing  but  wickedness.  You  must  try  to  be  good, 
Robinson.  West  has,  as  you  know,  a  wife  and  children, 
and  you  must  not  think  of  him  any  more.     You  have 


76 

taken  this  lodging  so  that  you  may  see  him.  You  must 
think  of  your  future ;  this  can't  last.'  " 

"  No,  indeed,  this  life  is  but  a  moment,"  sighed  Aunt 
Hester.  "  I  wish  you  had  had  one  of  these  books  to 
give  her." 

"  I  did  better,  Hester.  I  told  her  some  plain  truths, 
and  she  put  off  her  high  and  mighty  airs  and  began 
to  cry.  I  shall  never  forget  it.  Oh,  how  hot  it  was  in 
that  little  room  just  under  the  slates,  with  one  garret 
window  and  the  sun  pouring  in.  There  was  scarcely  any 
furniture,  and  I  was  sitting  on  her  bed.  I  said,  *  Now, 
Robinson,  you  must  give  me  back  the  presents  West  made 
you,  and  you  must  promise  me  to  go  back  to  Chichester.' 
And  I  didn't  leave  her  until  she  promised  me  to  go  home 
next  day. 

"  When  I  stepped  into  the  carriage  you  should  have 
seen  West's  face.  He  didn't  know  what  had  happened; 
I  didn't  speak  to  him  till  next  day.  As  I  was  going 
into  the  garden,  I  called  him.  I  said,  *  West,  I  want  to 
speak  to  you.'  *  Yes,  mum.'  We  went  into  the  back 
garden;  I  was  planting  there.  Edward  was  out  riding, 
so  I  knew  we  shouldn't  be  disturbed.  I  said,  '  West,  I 
saw  Robinson  yesterday,  and  I  have  a  parcel  for  you;  she 
has  promised  me  not  to  see  you,  and  you  must  promise 
me  not  to  see  her.'  '  Very  well,  mum,  since  you  say  it.' 
*  This  is  a  very  sad  affair.  West.'  '  A  bad  business,  mum 
• — a  bad  business,  mum.'  There  was  always  something  in 
West's  stolid  face  that  used  to  amuse  me.  You  should 
have  heard  him.  '  I  don't  think  she  could  help  it,  mum; 
she  never  loved  another  man — I  really  don't.  But  I 
was  going  to  tell  you,  mum,  I  once  knew  a  servant,  a 
married  man,  he  was  in  love  with  a  young  woman,  and 
they  waited  long  years,  and  when  the  wife  died  they 
married,  mum.'  '  That  was  all  very  well  long  ago.  West, 
but  wives  don't  die  nowadays.'  " 

So  Aunt  Mary  talked,  realising  and  giving  expression 


77 

to  both  the  pathos  and  the  comedy  of  her  story.  Then, 
feeling  that  she  was  digressing  at  too  great  length,  she 
strove  to  generalise  from  the  particular  incident  which 
she  had  related,  and  get  back  to  the  theme  of  the  con- 
versation. 

"  I  don't  know  what  we  shall  do,  I  don't  know  what 
we  are  coming  to;  servants  are  getting  too  strong  for 
us.  My  last  cook  gave  us  no  end  of  trouble;  the  butler 
used  to  have  to  lock  himself  up  in  the  pantry;  and 
yet  I  had  to  give  her  a  character.  Of  course  it  was  very 
wrong  of  me  to  enable  her  to  thrust  herself  upon 
another  family,  but  what  was  I  to  do  ?  I  couldn't  deprive 
her  of  the  means  of  earning  her  living.  She'll  give 
trouble  wherever  she  goes.  There  is  no  remedy,  there 
really  isn't;  I  don't  know  what's  to  be  done  unless  we 
ladies  combine  and  refuse  to  give  them  characters." 

Here  Aunt  Mary's  thoughts  and  words  began  to  fail 
her,  for  she  felt  she  was  not  getting  back  to  the  point 
where  she  had  entered  on  her  various  digressions,  and 
without  further  ado,  and  quite  undisconcerted,  she  said, 
"  But  I  forget  where  I  was ;  what  were  we  talking 
about.?  " 

"  We  were  talking  about  dear  Sally  and  Maggie,  and 
the  need  they  stand  of  counsel  and  help.  Their  con- 
duct is  to  be  deeply  regretted;  but  theirs  is  only  youth- 
ful folly.  They  have  not  done  anything,  I  am  sure, 
that " 

"  Quite  so,  Hester ;  of  course.  But  at  the  same  time 
a  stop  must  be  put  to  all  this  nonsense;  it  cannot  be 
allowed.  I  have  only  to  look  round  to  take  it  all  in. 
They  are  worrying  their  father  into  his  grave.  His 
position  is  a  very  trying  one.  He  has  no  one  whom  he 
can  depend  on — no  one." 

"  I  am  alone  since  poor  Julia " 

Aunt  Mary  and  Aunt  Hester  looked  at  each  other,  and 


78 

they  wondered  if  the  terrors  of  the  carving  knife  were 
completely  forgotten. 

"  Poor  James,"  said  Aunt  Mary,  recrossing  her  hands, 
"  is  obliged  to  go  to  London  every  morning,  from  ten 
till,  I  may  say,  half-past  six." 

"  I  am  never  home  before  seven." 

"  These  girls  are  their  own  mistresses ;  they  go  out 
when  they  like,  they  order  the  carriage  whenever  they 
like,  and  they  invite  here  every  one  it  pleases  their  fancy 
to  invite  without  consulting  their  father.  I  believe  he 
doesn't  even " 

"  I  know  none  of  the  young  men  who  come  to  my 
house.  All  I  know  of  them  is  that  they  come  from  the 
Southdown  Road." 

"  Don't  be  so  silly,  James,  put  up  that  handkerchief. 
Of  course,  the  Southdown  Road  is  one  of  the  great  dis- 
advantages of  the  place.  Those  villa  residences  have 
brought  into  Southwick  a  host  of  people  that  a  man  living 
in  a  big  place  like  the  Manor  House  cannot  know — little 
people  who  have " 

"  Not  two  hundred  pounds  invested — no,  nor  yet  a 
hundred." 

"  Well,  I  don't  wish  to  offend  them,  I'll  say  small 
incomes.  They  are  all  devoured  with  envy,  and  all  they 
think  of  is  what  goes  on  at  the  Manor  House." 

"  A  lot  of  penniless  young  jackanapeses.  Every  morn- 
ing I  see  them  at  the  station  watching  me  over  the  tops 
of  their  newspapers." 

"  You  must  understand,  Hester,  poor  James  up  in 
London,  toiling,  not  knowing  what  is  going  on  in  his  own 
home;  feasting  and  pleasure  going  on  morning,  noon, 
and,  I  may  say,  night,  for  when  James  returned  home 
unexpectedly  about  ten  o'clock  at  night,  he  found  them — 
how  many  were  there?  " 

"  About  a  dozen,  the  others  had  gone." 

"  Feasting,  drinking  his  champagne — his  very  best." 


79 

"  The  last  few  bottles  of  '34  port  were  drunk ;  the 
peaches,  that  the  gardener  had  been  forcing  so  carefully 
for  months  past,  were  all  eaten.  I  returned  home  unex- 
pectedly; I  had  intended  to  spend  the  night  in  London — 
you  know  I  went  there  to  see  about  starting  Willy  on  the 
Stock  Exchange;  he  has  drawn  three  thousand  more  out 
of  the  distillery;  I  hope  he  won't  lose  it.  Well,  I  met 
Berkins  in  Pall  Mall,  and  he  said  if  I  would  return  by 
the  late  train  that  he  would  spend  the  night  here,  and  we 
would  go  up  to  town  together  in  the  morning.  I  sus- 
pected nothing;  I  went  into  my  dining-room,  and  there  I 
found  them  all  at  supper.  Had  it  not  been  for  Berkins 
it  wouldn't  have  mattered.  He  was  indignant  when  he 
saw  one  of  those  jackanapeses  with  his  arm  round  the 
back  of  Grace's  chair;  he  says  that  such  company  is  not 
fit  for  the  lady  that  is  going  to  be  his  wife;  and  he  now 
insists  on  fixing  the  day,  the  settlements,  and  everything, 
or  of  breaking  off  the  match." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  fix  the  day  and  the  settle- 
ments }  " 

"  Grace  is  not  willing ;  she  is  quite  imdecided.  She 
says  she  doesn't  know  whether  she  will  have  him  or  not. 
Sally  tries  to  set  her  against  him;  she  laughs  at  him, 
says  he  is  pompous,  and  imitates  him.  Of  course,  it  is 
quite  true  that  he  thinks  everything  he  has  is  better  than 
anybody  else's.  She  says  he  is  old,  and  says  that  kissing 
him  would  be  like  rubbing  your  face  in  a  mattress." 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Aunt  Mary,  "  Sally  ought  to  have 
been  a  man;  had  she  been  a  man,  it  would  have  been 
all  right." 

Aunt  Hester,  who  had  spent  her  life  in  a  vicarage, 
glanced  uneasily  at  her  sister,  and  fidgeted  with  the 
papers  in  her  satchel. 

"  I  suppose  it  will  be  all  the  same  a  hundred  years 
hence." 


80 

"  No,  James,  it  will  not,"  replied  Aunt  Hester,  with 
unusual  determination. 

The  conversation  dropped,  and  the  speakers  stared  at 
each  other  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed. 

"  She  is  a  very  difficult  girl  to  manage.  If  it  were 
not  for  her  we  could  get  on  very  well;  it  is  she  who 
upsets  everything.  She  can't  agree  with  Maggie;  they 
are  always  quarrelling.  The  day  after  the  party  she 
threatened  to  knock  her  down  if  she  interfered  with 
her  young  man." 

"  Is  it  possible !  Did  she  say  that  ?  Well,  when  it 
comes  to  young  ladies  knocking  each  other  down !  Young 
ladies  were  very  diflferent  in  my  young  days.  It  only 
proves  what  I  said  about  Sally — she  ought  to  have  been 
a  man,  she  really  ought  to  have  been  a  man.  I  see  it 
all;  I  have  only  to  give  one  look  round  to  take  it  all  in 
one  glance.  When  she  came  to  meet  me  in  Brighton  I 
understood  it  all  at  once;  I  saw  she  could  not  restrain 
herself,  no  powers  of  self-restraint.  Her  eyes  fixed  on 
every  man  as  if  she  couldn't  see  enough  of  him ;  her  black 
eyes  flashing.  I  wanted  no  telling — I  saw  it  all;  the 
moment  a  young  man  went  by  her  eyes  flashed.  Here 
she  was — '  Aunt  Mary,  Aunt  Mary,  there's  Meason, 
there's  Meason,  Aunt  Mary,  Meason,  Meason,  Aunt  Mary.' 
It  is  not  right,  it  can't  be  right ;  and  to  my  thinking  Mag- 
gie is  just  as  bad — a  little  more  sly  perhaps." 

"  No,  not  dear  Maggie." 

"  I  say  it  is  not  right;  girls  in  good  health  could  not 
go  on  like  that.  If  I  were  you,  James,  I  would  take 
them  up  to  a  first-rate  London  physician,  the  very  best 
that  can  be  had  for  money.  Those  girls  are  highly  or- 
ganised, highly  sensitive;  their  nerves  are  highly  strung. 
They  want  something  to  bring  them  down,"  said  Aimt 
Mary;  but  catching  at  that  moment  sight  of  her  sister's 
face,  she  laughed  consumedly,  and,  speaking  through  her 
laughter,    said,    "  So-and-so,  a    first-rate    man,    I    can't 


81 

think  of  his  name — ^he  will  give  you  the  very  best  advice." 

"  I  think  if  our  dear  nieces  could  be  brought  to  under- 
stand the  sinfulness  of  their  disobedience.  I  have  here 
one  or  two  little  books  which  I  think  it  would  be  advisable 
for  them  to  read." 

"  Later  on,  my  dear  Hester ;  the  best  thing  that  James 
can  do  is  to  see  to  their  health.  No  girls  in  good  health 
could  act  as  they  do;  it  is  radically  impossible." 

"  I  suppose  that  is  what  I  must  do ;  I  don't  know  if 
I  shall  succeed,  but  I  will  try  to  get  them  to  come  up 
to  London  and  have  medical  advice.  Since  the  death  of 
poor  Julia  I  have  been  all  alone;  my  position  is  a  very 
hard  one.  I  have  no  one  to  talk  to,  to  assist  me,  to  take 
my  place  in  any  way.  I  am  obliged  to  go  to  London 
every  day,  and  I  assure  you  my  heart  is  all  of  a  flutter 
in  the  morning  when  I  take  the  train,  for  I  don't  know 
what  may  happen  before  I  return.  The  girls  can  do 
what  they  like ;  they  are  mistresses  of  this  big  house,  they 
take  the  carriage  into  Brighton  when  they  like,  Sally 
takes  the  cart.  I  have  thought  of  getting  rid  of  that 
cart." 

Although  passionately  fond  of  talking,  Aimt  Mary 
would  with  patience,  and  even  with  pleasure,  cross  her 
hands  and  settle  herself  down  to  listen  to  one  of  Uncle 
James's  interminable  lamentations,  but  Aunt  Hester,  a 
nervous  and  timid  creature  who  talked  but  little,  not  only 
declared  that  she  could  not  bear  to  hear  the  same  stories 
over  and  over  again,  but  interrupted  her  brother  with 
firmness  and  determination.  Indeed,  it  was  only  on  oc- 
casion of  Uncle  James's  soliloquies  that  she  had  ever 
shown  any  strength  of  will. 

"  We  know  very  well,  James,  that  your  position  is  a 
trying  one — that  since  the  death  of  poor  Julia  you  have 
no  one  whom  you  can  look  to.  There  is  no  use  in  telling 
us  this  over  again;  it  is  mere  waste  of  time.  What  we 
have  to  do  now  is  by  all  means  in  our  power  to  con- 


82 

vince  dear  Sally  of  the  sinfulness  of  her  conduct,  and  so 
strive  to  bring  her  back  to  a  state  of  grace." 

"  Her  spirit  must  be  broken,  she  must  be  subdued," 
interjected  Aunt  Mary. 

"  Christ  is  the  real  healer,  prayer  is  the  true  medicine, 
and  by  it  alone  is  the  troubled  spirit  soothed." 

It  being  impossible  to  contravene  these  opinions,  the 
conversation  came  to  a  pause,  which  was  at  length  inter- 
rupted by  Mr.  Brookes,  who  through  the  folds  of  his 
handkerchief  declared  again  that  it  would  be  all  the  same 
a  hundred  years  hence.  Even  Aunt  Mary's  realism  did 
not  offend  Aunt  Hester  as  did  this  un-Christian  philoso- 
phy; she  gathered  her  strength  for  a  grave  reproof,  but 
was  cut  short  by  her  sister's  laughter.  All  the  teeth 
were  glittering  now,  and  peal  after  peal  of  laughter 
came.  Aunt  Hester's  courage  died,  and  her  long, 
freckled  face  drooped  like  a  sad  flower. 

"  Now  let  us  hear  something  about  Grace.  What 
about  this  marriage?  Is  Berkins  as  amorous  as  ever.^ 
That  man  does  amuse  me — ^his  waistcoat  buttons  are  bet- 
ter than  any  other  man's." 

"  Mary,  Mary,  I  beg  of  you  to  remember  Mr.  Berkins 
is  a  man  of  eight  thousand  a  year." 

"  He  may  make  eight  thousand  a  year,  but  he  has  very 
little  money  invested,"  said  Aunt  Mary. 

"  That  is  true,"  Mr.  Brookes  replied  reflectively,  and 
he  was  about  to  rush  off  into  a  long  financial  statement 
when  his  sister,  who  already  regretted  her  joke,  checked 
him  with  an  abrupt  question. 

"  My  dear  James,  is  this  marriage  to  be  or  not  to  be  ? 
That  is  what  I  want  to  know." 

"  I  really  can't  say,  Mary ;  Sally  has  contrived  to 
upset  her  sister;  she  would  have  been,  I  feel  sure,  glad 
to  marry  Mr.  Berkins  if  she  had  not  been  upset  by 
SaUy." 

"  Upset  by  Sally,  what  do  you  mean?  " 


88 

"  I  told  you  that  Sally  tries  to  turn  Berkins  into  ridi- 
cule, laughs  at  his  beard  among  other  things." 

"  I  must  see  Grace  about  this,"  said  Aunt  Mary;  "  you 
must  excuse  my  laughing,  but  Sally  is  often  very  droll." 

Choosing  the  first  occasion  when  Maggie  and  Sally 
were  absent  from  the  room.  Aunt  Mary  said,  "  Come, 
Gracie,  dear,  tell  me  about  this  marriage.  I  hear  that 
your  mind  is  not  made  up — ^that  you  are  not  at  all  de- 
cided. This  is  not  acting  fairly  towards  your  father. 
You  are  placing  him  in  a  very  false  position." 

"  I  don't  think  so,  aunty.  No  one,  so  far  as  I  can 
make  out,  is  either  decided  or  satisfied.  Mr.  Berkins 
is  not  satisfied  with  the  society  we  see." 

"  The  Southdown  Road  you  mean,"  interrupted  Mr. 
Brookes,  "  and  very  properly,  too." 

"  And  father  and  he  cannot  agree  upon  money  matters, 
and  I  don't  like  a  beard " 

"  You  never  objected  to  a  beard  until  Sally  put  you 
against  it." 

"  Yes,  I  did,  father ;  I  always  told  you " 

"  Never  mind  the  beard,  tell  me  about  the  money  mat- 
ters that  your  father  and  Mr.  Berkins  can't  agree  upon." 

"  Mr.  Berkins  has  offered  to  settle  twelve  thousand 
pounds  upon  me  if  father  will  settle  the  same  amount. 
But  father  won't  agree  to  this;  he  wants  Mr.  Berkins 
to  settle  twelve,  but  does  not  want  to  settle  more  than 
seven  himself  upon  me." 

"  Is  this  so,  James  ?  "  asked  Aunt  Mary. 

Mr.  Brookes  avoided  answering  the  question,  and  en- 
tered into  a  long  and  garrulous  statement  concerning 
himself  and  his  money:  he  had  made  it  all  himself!  He 
spoke  of  his  investments  with  pride,  and  pathetically 
declared  that  he  would  not  marry  again  because  he  would 
not  deprive  his  dear  children  of  anything.  Aunt  Mary 
crossed  her  hands  over  her  shawl,  and  set  herself  to 
listen  to  the  old  gentleman's  rigmarole.     Aunt  Hester 


84 

tried  several  times  to  cut  him  shorty  but  this  time  he 
would  not  be  silenced. 

Then  Aunt  Mary  started  the  story  of  a  girl  whom 
she  had  known  intimately  in  early  life,  which  she  no 
doubt  thought  would  help  Grace  to  a  better  comprehen- 
sion of  her  difficulties;  but  the  dear  lady  lost  herself 
in  the  domestic  entanglement  of  many  families,  on  the 
subject  of  which  she  contributed  much  curious  informa- 
tion, without,  however,  elucidating  the  matter  in  hand. 
She  wandered  so  far  that  at  length  all  hope  of  return 
became  impossible,  and  she  was  obliged  to  pull  up  sud- 
denly and  ask  what  she  had  been  talking  about. 

"  What  was  I  talking  about,  James ;  you  have  been 
listening  to  me — what  was  I  talking  about }  " 

Mr.  Brookes  made  no  attempt  to  give  the  information 
necessary  for  the  blending  of  her  many  narratives,  and 
she  was  forced  to  seek  unaided  for  the  lost  thread. 
Soon  after  the  girls  came  in  with  their  gin  and  water. 
They  drank  their  grog,  kissed  their  relations,  and  re- 
tired to  bed. 

And  the  next  evening,  and  the  next,  and  the  next,  so 
long  as  Aunt  Mary  and  Aunt  Hester  remained  at  the 
Manor  House,  the  evenings  passed  in  a  similar  fashion; 
and,  notwithstanding  the  doleful  faces  they  occasionally 
assumed,  they  found  pleasure  in  lamenting  the  follies 
of  the  young  people.  The  same  stories  were  told,  almost 
the  same  words  were  uttered.  The  only  malcontent  was 
Willy.  He  had  no  interest  in  his  sisters,  and  the  hours 
after  dinner  in  the  billiard-room  when  his  sisters  were  in 
the  drawing-room  were  those  he  devoted  to  looking 
through  his  letters  and  filling  up  his  diary;  so  when 
Sally's  name  was  mentioned  he  caught  at  his  short  crisp 
hair  and  gnashed  his  teeth. 


85 


CHAP.  VI. 

"  MY  dear  fellow,  just  as  I'm  settling  down  to  do  some 
work.  Aunt  Mary  comes  along  the  passage;  I  know  her 
step  so  well.  And  then  it  begins,  the  old  story  that  I 
have  heard  twenty  times  before,  all  over  again.  You 
have  no  idea  how  worrying  it  is." 

Frank  laughed,  and  talked  of  something  else.  These 
discussions  of  Sally's  character  and  general  behaviour 
did  not  appeal  to  him  in  either  a  comic  or  serious  light, 
and  the  havoc  they  made  of  Willy's  business  hours  did 
not  perceptibly  move  him;  he  was  full  of  his  good 
looks,  his  clothes,  his  affections,  his  bull-dog,  and  the 
fact  that  his  youth  was  going  by,  as  it  should  go  by, 
among  girls,  in  an  old  English  village,  in  a  garden  by 
the  sea. 

Aimt  Mary  was  a  woman  that  a  rarer  young  man 
would  have  been  attracted  by;  indeed  the  delicacy  of  a 
young  man  may  be  tested  by  the  sympathy  he  may  feel 
for  women  when  age  has  drawn  a  veil  over,  and  put  sex- 
ual promptings  aside.  Her  bright  teeth  and  eyes,  the 
winsome  little  face,  so  glad,  would  have  at  once  chaimed 
and  led  any  young  man  not  so  brutally  young  as  Frank 
Escott.  It  would  have  pleased  another  to  watch  her,  to 
wait  on  her,  to  listen  to  her  rambling  stories  all  so  full 
of  laughter  and  the  sunshine  of  kindness  and  homely  wit ; 
it  would  have  pleased  him  to  note  that  she  was  gratified 
by  the  admiration  of  a  young  man ;  it  would  please  him  to 
hear  himself  called  by  his  Christian  name,  while  he  must 
address  her  as  Mrs.  So-and-so,  and  In  maintaining  this 
difference  they  would  both  become  conscious  of  pleasing 
restraint. 

His  comprehension  of  life  was  invariably  a  sentimental 
one,  so  the  aunts  were  to  him  merely  middle-aged  women 
— uninteresting,  and  useful  only  so  far  as  their  efforts 


86 

contributed  to  render  the  lives  of  yoTing  people  easy  and 
pleasurable.  In  abrupt  and  passing  impressions  he  con- 
cluded that  Aunt  Mary  was  bright  and  pleasant,  but 
tediously  voluble,  given  to  wasting  that  time  which  he 
would  have  liked  to  spend  talking  to  the  young  ladies  of 
poetry  and  Italy. 

He  scorned  poor  Aunt  Hester.  She  shrank  from  him, 
frightened  by  his  harsh,  blunt  manners ;  she  was  afraid 
he  led  a  sinful  life  in  London.  Aunt  Mary  had  few 
doubts  on  the  subject,  and  her  comments  made  her  sister 
tremble.  She  spoke  of  him  as  a  most  desirable  husband 
for  Maggie.  "  He  will  be  a  peer,  my  dear  James.  Lord 
Mount  Rorke  will  never  marry  again.  He  is  the 
acknowledged  heir  to  the  title  and  estates." 

And  the  young  man  went  as  he  came — full  of  himself, 
his  clothes,  his  good  looks;  bumptious  and  arrogant, 
effusive  in  his  love  of  his  friends,  and  yet  sincere.  He 
looked  out  of  the  railway  carriage  window  to  seize  a  last 
look  of  the  green,  with  its  horsepond  and  its  downs,  and 
the  cricketers  all  in  white,  running  to  and  fro  (young 
Meason  had  just  made  a  three,  and  Sally  was  applaud- 
ing). The  porches  of  the  Southdown  Road  he  could 
just  see  over  the  fields,  and  Mr.  Brookes's  glass  glittered 
amid  the  summer  foliage.  At  that  moment  he  loved  the 
ugly  little  village,  with  its  barren  downs  and  all  its 
anomalous  aspects  of  town  and  country.  He  thought 
of  his  friends  there,  and  his  life  appeared  to  be  theirs, 
and  theirs  his,  and  he  wished  it  might  flow  on  for  ever 
in  this  quiet  place.  He  seemed  to  understand  it  all  so 
well,  and  to  love  it  all  so  dearly.  He  accepted  it  all, 
even  its  vulgarest  aspects.  Even  pompous  Berkins  ap- 
peared to  him  under  a  tenderer  light — the  light  of  orange- 
flowers  and  married  love.  For  Aunt  Mary  had  smoothed 
away  all  difiiculties,  hirsute  and  monetary,  and  the  wed- 
ding had  been  fixed  for  the  autumn.  The  gaiety  of  the 
day  he  had  spent  with  the  girls^  its  feasting  and  its  flirta- 


87 

tion,  arose^  memorised  in  a  soft  halo  of  imagination — a 
day  of  fruit,  wine,  and  light  words,  and  the  dear  General, 
with  his  St.  James's  politics  and  his  only  desire — "  a 
little  something  to  do — something  to  bring  me  out,  you 
know."  The  pugs,  the  mangy  mastiflf,  the  hospitable 
house  always  open,  its  ready  welcome,  and,  above  all, 
the  air  which  it  held  of  the  lives  of  its  occupants;  its 
pictures  of  white  Arab  horses,  and  elephants  richly  ca- 
parisoned; the  wonderful  goats  in  the  field,  and  the  trop- 
ical birds  and  animals  in  the  back  garden !  Above  all, 
the  walks  on  the  green  with  the  chemist's  wife,  and  the 
annoyance  such  familiarity  caused  Mr.  Brookes — how 
funny,  how  charming,  how  amusing!  He  was  smiling 
through  the  tears  that  rose  to  his  eyes  when  the  train 
rolled  into  Brighton. 

On  arriving  in  London  he  drove  straight  to  the  Temple. 
The  creaking,  disjointed  staircases,  with  the  lanterns 
of  old  time  in  the  windows,  jarred  his  thoughts,  which 
were  still  of  South  wick;  and  when  he  entered  his  rooms 
their  loneliness  struck  him  with  a  chill.  He  pictured 
Maggie  sitting  in  the  armchair  waiting  for  him,  and  he 
imagined  how  she  would  lay  her  book  aside  and  say, 
"  Oh,  here  you  are !  "  He  sat  down  to  read  his  letters. 
One  was  from  Lord  Mount  Rorke,  enclosing  a  cheque, 
another  a  daintily  cut  envelope,  smelling  daintily,  came 
from  Lady  Seveley. 

"Dear  Mr.  Escott, — I  have  not  seen  anything  of  you 
for  a  very  long  time;  you  promised  to  lunch  with  me  be- 
fore you  left  town,  but  I  suppose  amid  the  general  gaieties 
and  friends  of  the  season  you  were  carried  far  away  quite 
out  of  my  reckoning.  However,  I  hope  when  you  return 
you  will  come  and  see  me.      I   got  your  address   from 

Mr. ,  but  you  need  not  tell  him  that  I  wrote  to  you; 

he  is,  as  you  know,  a  dreadful  chatterbox,  and  somehow 


88 

or  other,  without  meaning  it,  contrives  to  make  gossip 
and  mischief  out  of  everything. 

"  The  weather  here  is  delicious — perhaps  a  trifle  too 
hot;  and  sometimes  I  envy  you  your  cool  sea-side  resort. 
I  wonder  what  the  attraction  is.''  It  must  be  a  very 
special  one  to  keep  you  out  of  London  in  June. 

"  Should  you  be  in  town  next  Thursday,  come  and 
dine;  I  have  a  box  for  the  theatre.  And  as  an  extra  in- 
ducement I  will  tell  you  that  I  have  two  very  nice  girls 
staying  with  me,  who  will  interest  you. — Yours  very 
truly,  Helen  Seveley." 

Some  men  of  thirty  would  have  instantly  understood 
Lady  Seveley's  letter.  But  age  gives  us  nothing  we  do 
not  already  possess,  the  years  develop  what  is  latent  in 
us  in  youth,  and  it  is  certain  that  Frank  at  thirty  would 
have  understood  the  letter  as  vaguely  and  incompletely 
as  he  did  to-day.  We  read  our  sympathies  and  antipa- 
thies in  all  we  look  upon,  and  Frank  read  in  this  letter 
an  old  woman  with  diamonds  and  dyed  hair.  He  had 
met  her  twice.  The  first  time  was  at  a  ball  where  he 
knew  nobody;  the  second  was  at  a  dinner  party.  She 
had  fixed  her  eyes  upon  him;  she  had  prevented  him 
from  talking  after  dinner  to  a  young  girl  whom  he  had 
admired  across  the  table  during  dinner.  He  did  not  like 
her,  and  he  thought  now  of  the  young  girls  he  would  meet 
if  he  accepted  her  invitation.  Lady  Seveley  was  a 
shadow;  and  when  the  shadow  defined  itself  he  saw  the 
slight  wrinkling  of  the  skin  about  the  eyes,  the  almost 
imperceptible  looseness  of  the  flesh  about  the  chin;  but, 
worse  to  him  than  these  physical  changes,  were  the  hard 
measured  phrases  in  which  there  is  knowledge  of  the 
savour  and  worth  of  life.  He  unpacked  his  portmanteau, 
and,  dallying  with  his  resolutions,  he  wondered  if  he 
should  go  to  Lady  Seveley's:  conclusions  and  determina- 
tions    were    constitutionally     abhorrent,     self-deception 


89 

natural  to  him.  Were  he  asked  if  he  intended  to  turn  to 
the  right  or  to  the  left,  although  he  were  going  nowhere 
and  an  answer  would  compromise  him  in  nothing,  he 
would  certainly  say  he  did  not  know;  and  if  he  were 
expostulated  with,  he  would  reply  rudely,  arrogantly. 
This  is  worthy  of  notice,  for  what  was  special  in  his 
character  was  the  combination  it  afforded  of  degenerate 
weakness  and  pride,  complicated  with  a  towering  sense 
of  self-sufficiency.  Youth's  illusions  would  not  pass  from 
him  easily;  in  his  eyes  and  heart  the  hawthorn  would 
always  be  in  bloom,  young  girls  would  always  be  beau- 
tiful, innocent,  true  to  the  lovers  they  had  selected;  nor 
was  there  of  necessity  degradation  nor  forced  continu- 
ance in  any  state  of  vice.  Love  could  raise  and  purify, 
love  could  restore,  love  could  make  whole;  if  one  woman 
were  faithless,  another  would  be  constant;  if  to-day  were 
dark,  to-morrow  would  be  bright.  Life  had  no  deep 
truth  for  him,  no  underlying  mysteries;  it  was  not  a 
problem  capable  of  demonstration,  capable  of  definition; 
it  was  not  a  thing  of  limitations  and  goals  and  ends;  he 
could  feel  nothing  of  this — the  philosophic  temperament 
was  absent  in  him.  Life  had  no  deep  truth  for  him,  no 
underlying  mysteries;  he  did  not  dream  of  past  times, 
and  he  placed  few  hopes  in  the  future ;  life  was  a  thing  to 
be  enjoyed  in  the  moment  of  living,  and  the  present 
moment  was  a  very  pleasant  one.  He  leaned  over  the 
doors  of  the  hansom  resting  his  gloved  hand  upon  his 
crutched  stick.  He  was  struck  with  the  pride  we  feel 
when  we  are  dressed  for  amusement  and  contemplate 
those  in  workaday  garb;  and  in  these  sensations  of  pride 
he  leaned  forward,  proud  of  his  good  looks,  his  shirt 
front,  his  shirt  cuffs,  his  glazed  shoes;  he  pleasured  in 
the  knowledge  that  many  saw  he  was  going  to  elegant 
company,  to  amusement.  He  was  full  of  scorn  for  the 
women  loitering,  for  the  clerks  hurrying,  and  especially 


90 

for  the  crowds  pressing  about  the  entrances  of  the 
theatres. 

London  opened  up  upon  a  little  black  space  of  asphalt; 
crimson  clouds  moved  over  the  many  windowed  walls  of 
the  great  hotels,  the  black  monumented  square  foamed 
with  white  water,  children  played,  and  the  gold  of  the 
inscriptions  over  the  shops  caught  the  eye.  London  was 
tall  on  the  heavens.  Regent  Street  was  full  of  young 
men  as  elegant  as  himself  driving  to  various  pleasures, 
and  Frank  wondered  what  sort  of  dinners  they  would 
eat,  what  kind  of  women  they  would  sit  by.  Then  as 
he  drove  through  Mayfair  he  thought  of  his  own  party. 
He  wondered  what  the  girls  would  think  of  him. 

Lady  Seveley  lived  in  Green  Street.  When  he  had 
rung  the  bell  he  listened  impatiently  for  approaching 
steps,  for  he  tingled  with  presentiment  that  he  would 
somehow  be  disappointed,  and  he  dreaded  dinner  by  him- 
self and  his  lonely  lodgings.  Nor  was  he  wholly  wrong. 
The  butler  who  opened  the  door  seemed  surprised  at 
seeing  him,  and  in  reply  to  his  question  if  Lady  Seveley 
was  at  home,  replied  hesitatingly :  "  Her  ladyship  is  at 
home,  but  she  is  not  at  all  well,  sir.  She  is,  I  think,  in 
her  room  lying  down,  sir." 

"  Oh,  but  did  she  not  expect  me  ?  I  was  to  have  dined 
here  to-night." 

"  I  heard  nothing  about  it,  sir ;  but  I'd  better  ask. 
Will  you  come  in,  sir  ?  " 

Lady  Seveley's  house  was  a  house  of  scent  and  soft 
carpets.  The  staircase  was  covered  with  pink  silk,  and 
in  the  recess  on  the  first  landing,  or  rather  where  the 
stairs  paused,  there  was  an  aviary  in  which  either  hawks 
screeched  or  owls  blinked;  generally  there  was  a  magpie 
there,  and  the  quaint  bird  now  hopped  to  Frank's  finger, 
casting  a  thievish  look  on  his  rings.  The  drawing-room 
was  full  of  flowers.  There  was  a  grand  piano,  dark  and 
bright;  the  skins  of  tigers  Lord  Seveley  had  shot  car- 


91 

peted  the  floor,  and  on  their  heads,  Helen  rested  her  feet, 
showing  her  plump  legs  to  her  visitors.  On  the  walls 
there  were  indiflferent  water-colours,  there  were  gold 
screens,  the  cabinets  were  full  of  china,  there  were  three- 
volume  novels  on  a  tea-table — it  was  the  typical  rich 
widow's  house,  a  house  where  young  men  lingered. 
Frank  stood  examining  a  portrait  on  china  of  Lady  Sev- 
eley,  it  was  happily  hung  with  blue  ribbon  from  the  top 
of  the  mirror.  It  represented  a  woman  inclined  to  stout- 
ness, about  three  and  thirty.  The  chestnut  hair  was 
piled  and  curled  with  strange  art  about  the  head.  Above 
the  face  there  was  a  mask,  roses  wreathed,  and  a  swallow 
carrying  a  love  missive,  butterflies  and  arrows  every- 
where, and  below  the  face  there  was  a  skull  profusely 
wreathed  and  almost  hidden  in  roses.  This  portrait 
would  have  stirred  the  imagination  of  many  young  men, 
but  Frank  thought  nothing  of  it — the  theatrical  display 
displeased  him,  it  seemed  to  him  even  a  little  foolish. 
He  crossed  over  to  the  flowers. 

"  Lady  Seveley  will  be  down  in  a  moment,  sir,"  said 
the  maid.     A  few  minutes  after  the  door  opened. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you.  Won't 
you  sit  down?  I  have  been  suffering  terribly  to-day — 
neuralgia;  nothing  for  it  but  to  lie  down  in  a  dark 
room." 

"  I  hope  you  are  better  now." 

"  Oh,  when  I  have  had  some  champagne,  I  shall  be 
quite  well.     Now  tell  me  something;  talk  to  me." 

Helen  was  sitting  thrown  back  on  the  little  black  satin 
sofa;  she  had  crossed  her  legs,  and  her  foot  was  set  on  a 
tiger's  head.  The  ankle  was  too  thick,  the  foot  slightly 
fat,  but  stocking  and  shoe  were  perfect,  and  these  drew 
Frank's  eyes  too  attentively.  Helen  noticed  this  and 
was  glad. 

"  So  you  like  Maggie  the  best  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,   I   like  her   the   best,   Sally   is   too   rough. 


92 

How  those  girls  do  worry  their  father.  He  has  to  go 
up  to  town  every  day;  he  is  in  the  City,  and  the  girls 
give  tennis  parties,  and  drink  his  best  wine.  There  was 
an  awful  row  there  the  other  day  about  the  peaches;  he 
had  been  going  in  for  forcing,  and  was  counting  the  days 
when  they  would  be  ripe.     The  young  men  ate  them  all." 

Helen  laughed.     "  A  sort  of  comic  King  Lear." 

"  Just  so,  the  girls  will  have  large  fortunes  at  their 
father's  death.  I  have  known  them  all  my  life.  I  used 
to  spend  my  holidays  with  them  when  I  was  a  small 
boy." 

"  And  you  haven't  seen  them  for  a  long  time  ?  " 

"  No,  I  was  in  Ireland  two  years,  and  then  I  went  to 
Italy.  This  was  the  first  time  I  saw  them  since  they 
were  really  grown  up." 

"  And  you  say  they  are  beautiful  girls  and  will  have 
large  fortunes." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  Maggie  is  a  good-looking  girl ;  she 
is  more  a  fascinating  girl  than  a  beautiful  girl."  A  sud- 
den remembrance  of  Lizzie  Baker  dictated  this  opinion 
of  Maggie  Brookes. 

"  Dinner  is  on  the  table,  my  lady." 

"  I  think  you  said  in  your  letter  that  you  were  going 
to  have  two  young  girls  staying  with  you." 

"  Yes,  but  they  could  not  come ;  they  were  to  have 
been  here  on  Monday.  I  am  very  sorry;  had  I  known 
for  certain  that  you  were  coming,  I  would  have  arranged 
to  have  some  one  meet  you." 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  didn't."  The  conversation 
dropped.  "  You  said  you  were  going  to  the  theatre. 
What  theatre  are  you  thinking  of  going  to.^  " 

"  My  neuralgia  put  all  thoughts  of  the  theatre  out  of 
my  head.  I  have  a  box  for  the  Gaiety.  We  will  go  if 
you  like." 

The  name  of  the  theatre  reminded  him  of  Lizzie  Baker, 
and  he  compared  the  pale,  refined  face  of  the  bar  girl 


98 

with  the  over-coloured  woman — ^his  hostess.  He  had 
not  seen  Lizzie  for  a  long  time.  Why  had  he  not  gone 
to  the  bar  room  the  last  time  he  was  in  London? 

"  You  have  not  answered  me — ^would  you  like  to  go 
to  the  Gaiety  .>" 

"  I  am  sure  I  beg  your  pardon/'  and  then,  in  a  sudden 
confusion  of  memories  and  desires,  he  said :  "  I  don't 
know  that  I  care  much  about  going  to  the  theatre.  You 
are  not  feeling  well." 

"  My  neuralgia  is  almost  all  gone.  There's  nothing 
like  champagne  for  it.  Hardwick,  Mr.  Escott  will  take 
some  more  champagne." 

There  were  engravings  after  Burne-Jones  and  Rossetti 
on  the  walls,  and  Frank  stopped  to  look  at  them  as  he 
followed  Lady  Seveley  upstairs.  She  went  straight  to 
the  piano. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  music  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes ;  there  is  nothing  I  like  more  than  fiddling  at 
the  piano." 

"  Then  do  play  something." 

"  Oh,  no,  not  for  worlds.  I  only  strum,  I  don't  know 
my  notes.  I  strum  on  the  piano  as  I  strum  on  the 
violin." 

"  Do  you  play  the  violin  ?  " 

"  I  can't  call  it  playing,  I  was  never  taught." 

"  How  did  you  learn,  then  ?  It  is  a  most  difficult  in- 
strument; I  couldn't  get  on  with  it  at  all;  I  will  get 
mine  out  if  you  will  play  something." 

"If  you  promise  not  to  laugh,  I  will  try,  but  I  assure 
you  I  know  nothing  about  it.  I  borrowed  a  violin  once, 
and  I  taught  myself  to  play  a  tune;  then  I  bought  a 
violin,  and  I  amuse  myself  when  I  am  alone." 

"  How  very  clever  of  you.  There,  you  will  find  it 
under  the  piano  behind  that  music;  do  play  something, 
it  will  be  so  good  of  you." 

"What  shall  I  play?" 


94 

"  Anything  you  like." 

Frank  had  no  knowledge  of  the  instrument,  but  his 
ear  was  exquisitely  just  and  appreciative;  his  artistic 
desire  was  febrile  and  foolish,  but  you  thought  less  of 
this  in  his  music  than  in  his  painting  and  poetry.  His 
soul  went  out  in  the  strain  of  melody  sentimentally;  and 
it  leaned  him  in  varying  and  beautiful  attitudes.  The 
sweeping,  music-evoking  arm  was  beautiful  to  behold, 
and  the  music  seemed  to  cry  for  love;  all  about  him  was 
shadow;  only  the  light  fell  on  the  long  throat,  so  like 
a  fruit  to  the  eye;  the  charm  was  enervating  and  nervous. 
Helen  looked  at  him  again,  and  shuddering,  she  rose 
from  the  piano. 

"  What  did  you  break  oflf  like  that  for  ?  Was  I  play- 
ing so  badly?  " 

"  No,  no — come  and  sit  down  here,  come  and  sit  by 
me.  I  want  you  to  talk  to  me."  She  stretched  herself 
in  a  low  wicker  chair  by  the  open  window.  There  was 
a  church  opposite,  the  painted  panes  were  now  full  of 
mitre  and  alb,  and  the  vague  tumult  of  the  service  came 
in  contrast  with  the  summer  murmur  of  London  and  the 
light  of  the  evening  skies.  The  woman's  body  moved 
beneath  the  silk,  and  the  faint  odour  of  her  person  dilated 
the  nostrils  of  the  young  man.     "  Talk  to  me." 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  talk  to  you  about.  You  would 
not  care  for  my  conversation  any  more  than  you  do  for 
my  music — one  is  as  bad  as  the  other." 

"  No,  pray — I  assure  you — I  would  not  have  you  think 
that,  no."  Helen  made  a  movement  as  if  she  were  going 
to  lay  her  hand  on  his  arm;  checking  herself,  she  said: 
"  I  do  not  think  your  playing  bad ;  on  the  contrary,  per- 
haps I  think  it  too  good.  How  shall  I  explain.''  There 
are  times  when  I  cannot  bear  music;  the  pleasiu*e  it 
brings  is  too  near,  too  intense,  too  near  to  pain;  and  that 
'  Chanson  d'Eglise '  seems  to  bear  away  your  very  brain ; 


95 

you  play  it  with  such  fervour,  on  the  violin  each  phrase 
tears  the  soul." 

"  But  it  is  so  religious." 

"  Yes,  that  is  just  it;  no  sen no;  well,  there  is  no 

other  word;  no  sensuality  is  so  terrible  as  religious  sen- 
suality." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  I  can  understand  any 
one  saying  that  Offenbach  is  sensual,  but  I  don't  see 
how  the  term  can  be  applied  to  a  hymn." 

"  Perhaps  not  to  a  hymn,  although — but  *  La  Chanson 
d'Eglise  '  is  not  a  hymn." 

Her  arm  hung  along  the  chair,  the  flesh  showing 
through  the  silk  as  soft  as  a  flower.  He  might  take  it 
in  his  hands  and  bear  it  to  his  lips  and  kiss  it;  he  might 
lean  and  loll  and  kiss  her.  He  wondered  if  he  might  dare 
it;  but  her  air  of  ladyhood  was  so  marked  that  it  seemed 
impossible  that  she  would  not  resent.  He  could  not  quite 
realise  what  her  looks  and  words  would  be  afterwards. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  flatter  you,  but  I  think  you  play 
beautifully.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  I  have  never 
heard  any  one  play  the  violin  better — that  would  be 
ridiculous.  Your  playing  is  full  of  emotion.  That 
lovely  passage  thrilled  me;  I  do  not  know  why,  nor  can 
1  exactly  explain  my  feeling — nerves  perhaps.  Now  I 
come  to  think  of  it,  I  am  ashamed.     It  was  the  summer 

evening,  the  perfume  of  those  flowers ;  it  was "    Helen 

fixed  her  eyes  on  Frank,  as  if  she  would  like  to  say, 
"It  was  you."  With  a  sigh  she  said:  "It  was  the 
music."  Then  as  if  she  feared  she  was  showing  too 
plainly  what  was  passing  in  her  mind,  she  said :  "  But 
it  is  nearly  nine  o'clock.  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  go 
to  the  theatre,  the  ticket  for  the  box  is  on  the  table. 
I  should  not  be  more  than  a  few  minutes  changing  my 
dress.     Would  you  like  to  go?  " 

"  I  don't  much  mind,  just  as  you  like.  I  heard  that 
the  new  burlesque  was  very  amusing." 


96 

"  Then  let  us  go." 

Both  regretted  their  words;  and,  embarrassed,  each 
waited  for  the  other  to  say  No,  let  us  stay  here,  it  is 
far  sweeter  here.  But  it  was  difficult  to  draw  back  now 
without  avowal.  Helen  had  rung  for  her  maid.  She 
put  on  a  white  satin.  Her  opera  cloak  was  edged  with 
deep  soft  fur,  and  she  came  into  the  room  putting  on  her 
long  tan  gloves. 

"  Were  you  ever  in  love  ? "  Helen  asked,  and  she 
leaned  back  behind  the  curtain  of  the  box  out  of  sight 
of  the  audience. 

"  I  suppose  I  have  been  in  love;  but  why  do  you  ask?  " 

"  It  just  occurred  to  me." 

"  I  have  never  been  in  love  with  a  ballet  girl,  if  you 
mean  that." 

In  blue  tights  and  symmetrical  rows  the  legs  of  the 
chorus  ladies  were  arranged  about  the  stage;  the  low 
comedians  cracked  jokes  close  to  the  footlights;  the  stalls 
laughed,  the  pit  applauded. 

"  Haven't  you  ?  Is  that  really  so  ?  I  shouldn't  think 
it  would  be  nice.  And  yet,  if  all  we  hear  is  true,  young 
men  do  make  love  to  low  women;  I'm  not  speaking  now 
of  ballet  girls,  but  of  cooks  and  housemaids.  A  lady, 
a  friend  of  mine,  cannot  keep  a  housemaid  under  fifty  in 
her  house  on  account  of  her  son,  and  she  sent  him  to 
Eton." 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  I  have  heard  of  such  things,  but  I  never 
could  understand." 

"  I  am  glad.  But  you  say  you  have  been  in  love. 
Tell  me  all  about  it.  I  want  to  know.  What  was  she 
like?     Was  she  fair  or  dark?  " 

"  Fair.     She  used  to  wear  a  Gainsborough  hat." 

"  Did  you  like  those  great  hats  ?  " 

"  I  did  on  her." 

"  I  suppose  she  was  tall,  then." 

"  No,  she  was  short." 


»7 

"  Then  I  don't  see  how  she  would  wear  a  Gainsboroagh 
hat." 

"  She  did,  and  looked  exquisite  in  it  too." 

"  I  suppose  you  were  very  much  in  love  with  her  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  we  were  engaged,  and  going  to  be  married." 

"  Why  was  it  broken  off  ?  " 

"  Her  father  was  a  brute." 

"  Fathers  generally  are  brutes  on  such  occasions,  and 
there  are  generally  excellent  reasons  for  their  brutality." 

"  Husbands,  too,  are  brutes,  and  if  all  I  have  heard 
is  correct,  there  are  excellent  reasons  for  their  bru- 
tality." 

Lady  Seveley  turned  pale.  "  I  did  not  come  to  the 
theatre  to  be  insulted,"  she  said,  hesitating  whether  she 
should  rise  from  her  seat.  Frank  Escott  was  constantly 
guilty  of  such  indelicate  and  stupid  speeches,  and  it 
would  be  easy  to  cite  instances  in  which  his  conduct  was 
equally  unpractical.  Were  friends  to  speak  ill  of  any 
one  he  was  especially  intimate  with,  he  would  answer 
them  in  the  grossest  manner,  forgetful  that  he  was  mak- 
ing formidable  enemies  for  himself  without  in  the  least 
advancing  the  welfare  of  him  or  her  whose  defence  he 
had  undertaken.  With  some  words  and  looks  the  storm 
was  allayed,  and  they  felt  that  the  wind  that  might  have 
capsized  had  carried  their  craft  nearer  the  port  where 
they  were  steering.  Their  eyes  met,  and  for  a  moment 
they  looked  into  each  other's  souls.  Her  arm  hung  by 
her  side,  white  and  pure,  could  he  take  it  and  press  it 
to  his  lips  the  worst  would  be  over — he  would  have  ad- 
mitted his  desire.  But  the  box  curtain  did  not  hide  him, 
and  the  faces  opposite  seemed  to  watch;  and  then  she 
spoke,  and  with  her  words  brought  a  sense  of  distance, 
of  conventionality. 

"  Tell  me,  did  you  fall  in  love  with  her  the  first  time 
you  saw  her  ?  " 

"  I  think  so." 


98 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it.  When  did  you  see  her  for  the 
first  time?  " 

"  It  was  on  the  Metropolitan  Railway.  We  were  in 
the  same  carriage,  she  sat  opposite  to  me;  for  some  time 
we  were  alone,  and  I  thought  of  speaking  to  her,  but 
was  afraid  of  offending  her." 

"  Are  you  always  afraid  of  offending  people  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know — I  don't  think  I  am,"  Then  it  struck 
him  that  she  was  alluding  to  his  rudeness,  which  she 
declared  she  had  forgiven,  and  he  said :  "  I  am  sure  I 
can't  do  more,  I  told  you  I  was  sorry — that  I  did  not 
mean " 

"  Oh,  never  mind,  that  is  forgiven;  tell  me  about  her." 

A  little  perplexed,  he  continued :  "  She  was  dressed 
in  white,  and  her  face  was  like  a  flower  under  the  great 
hat." 

"  It  is  clear  that  you  can  admire  no  one  who  doesn't 
wear  a  Gainsborough  hat.  What  will  you  do  now  that 
they  have  gone  out  of  fashion  ?  I  am  sure  I  can't  gratify 
you." 

"  I  wondered  where  she  was  going.  I  wished  I  was 
going  to  the  same  house,  I  imagined  what  it  would  be 
like,  and  so  the  time  went  till  we  got  to  Kensington. 
She  turned  to  the  right,  so  did  I;  I  hoped  she  did  not 
think  I  was  following  her " 

"  You  were  both  going  to  the  same  house?  " 

"  Yes.  There  were  some  carnations  behind  her  in  a 
vase,  and  you  know  how  I  love  the  perfume  of  a  carna- 
tion— so  did  she.  She  told  me  of  the  flowers  they  had 
in  their  cottage  at  Maidenhead.  I  love  the  river,  so  did 
she,  and  we  spoke  of  the  river  all  the  afternoon.  And 
when  the  season  was  over  I  went  up  to  Maidenhead  too. 
I  had  my  boat  there  (I  must  show  you  my  boat  one  of 
these  days,  one  of  the  prettiest  boats  on  the  river).  We 
used  to  go  out  together,  and  tying  the  boat  under  an 
alder,  I  used  to  read  her  Browning.     Oh,  it  was  a  jolly 


69 

time."  The  conversation  came  to  a  pause^  then  Frank 
said :     "  Were  you  ever  in  love  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  was." 

"  With  your  husband  ?  " 

"  No,  I  was  not  in  love  with  my  husband,  he  was 
twenty  years  older  than  I.  When  I  was  eighteen  I  was 
very  much  in  love  with  a  young  fellow  who  used  to  come 
to  play  croquet  at  our  place.  But  my  parents  wouldn't 
hear  of  it.  I  was  not  at  all  strong  when  I  was  a  girl; 
they  said  I  wouldn't  live,  so  I  didn't  care  what  became 
of  me.  Lord  Seveley  admired  me;  it  was  a  very  good 
match,  I  was  anxious  to  get  away  from  home,  so  I  mar- 
ried him.  You  are  quite  wrong  in  supposing  I  treated 
him  badly." 

"  Forgive  me,  don't  say  any  more  about  that." 

"  We  had  rows,  it  is  true ;  he  said  horrible  things  about 
my  mother,  and  I  wouldn't  stand  that,  of  course." 

"What  things?" 

"  Oh,  I  can't  tell  you — no  matter.  Once  I  said  that  I 
wouldn't  have  married  him  only  I  thought  I  was  going 
to  die.  He  never  forgave  me  that.  It  was,  I  admit,  a 
foolish  thing  to  say." 

At  that  moment  the  curtain  came  down,  and  the  young 
men  moved  out  of  the  stalls.  "  There  are  two  men  I 
know,"  she  said,  fixing  her  glass.  "Do  you  see  them? 
The  elder  of  the  two  is  Harding,  the  novelist,  the  other 
is  Mr.  Fletcher,  an  Irishman." 

"  I  know  Fletcher— or,  rather,  I  know  of  him.  His 
father  was  a  shopkeeper  in  Gort,  the  nearest  town  to 
Mount  Rorke  Castle." 

"He  is  a  journalist,  isn't  he?  I  hear  he  is  doing 
pretty  well." 

"  In  London,  I  know,  you  associate  with  that  class,  but 
in  Ireland  we  wouldn't  think  of  knowing  them." 

"  I  thought  you  were  more  liberal-minded  than  that. 


100 

If  they  come  up  here,  what  shall  I  do?  I  mustn't  intro- 
duce you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  mind  being  introduced.  I  should  like  to 
know  Harding." 

"  I  can't  introduce  you  to  Harding  and  not  to  his 
friend." 

"I  don't  mind  being  introduced  to  Fletcher;  I'll  bow 
and  slink  off  to  smoke  a  cigarette.  Is  it  true  what  they 
say  about  him,  that  he  is  irresistible,  that  no  woman  can 
resist  him.''  I  don't  think  he  is  good-looking — a  good 
figure,  that's  all." 

"  He  has  the  most  lovely  hands  and  teeth." 

"  I  see ;  perhaps  you  are  in  love  with  him  ?  " 

A  knock  came  at  the  door;  the  young  men  entered. 
Lady  Seveley  introduced  them  to  Frank ;  he  bowed  coldly, 
and  addressed  Harding.  But  Lady  Seveley  said:  "O 
Mr.  Harding,  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  your  last 
novel;  I  have  just  finished  reading  it." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  this  piece  ?  "  Fletcher  asked 
Escott,  in  a  hesitating  and  conciliatory  manner. 

"  I  am  afraid  he  will  not  be  able  to  tell  you ;  he  hasn't 
ceased  talking  since  we  came  into  the  theatre." 

"  I  shovdd  have  done  the  same  had  I  been  in  his 
place." 

Lady  Seveley  smiled,  Frank  thought  the  words  pre- 
sumptuous. "  Who  the  devil  would  care  to  hear  you 
talk — and  that  filthy  accent."  And  at  that  moment  he 
remembered  Lizzie  Baker.  Fletcher  and  Harding  were 
now  speaking  to  Lady  Seveley,  and  taking  advantage  of 
the  circumstance  he  slipped  out,  and,  lighting  a  cigarette, 
entered  the  bar  room.  Behind  the  counter  the  young 
ladies  stood  in  single  file,  and  through  odours  of 
cigarettes  and  whisky  their  voices  called  "  One  coffee 
in  order,"  and  the  cry  was  passed  on  till  it  reached  the 
still-room.  Frank  remembered  having  read  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  place  somewhere,  he  thought  for  a  moment. 


101 

and  then  he  remembered  that  it  was  in  one  of  Harding's 
novels.  He  could  detect  no  diflference  in  the  loafers  that 
leaned  over  the  counter  talking  to  the  barmaids;  they 
were  dingy  arxd  dull,  whereas  the  young  men  from  the 
stalls  of  the  theatre  were  black  and  white  and  clean;  but 
the  keenest  eye  could  note  nothing  further,  and  a  closer 
inspection  showed  that  even  a  first  division  rested  on  no 
deeper  basis  than  the  chance  of  evening  dress.  Civilisa- 
tion has  given  us  all  one  face  and  mind.  He  walked  to 
where  Lizzie  was  serving;  soldiers  were  ordering  drinks 
of  her,  so  he  was  obliged  to  apply  to  the  next  girl  to  her 
for  his  brandy  and  soda.  He  drank  slowly,  hoping  her 
admirers  would  leave  her,  but  one  soldier  was  stationary, 
and  this  spot  of  red  grew  singularly  offensive  in  Frank's 
eyes,  from  the  clumsy,  characterless  boots,  to  the  close- 
clipped  hair  set  off  with  the  monotonously  jaunty  cap. 
The  man  sprawled  over  the  counter  drinking  a  glass  of 
porter.  Frank  tried  to  listen  to  what  he  was  saying. 
Lizzie  smiled,  showing  many  beautifully  shaped  teeth, 
so  beautifully  shaped  that  they  looked  like  sculpture. 
Behind  her  there  were  shelves  charged  with  glasses  and 
bottles,  gilt  elephants,  and  obelisks,  a  hideous  decoration; 
she  passed  up  and  down  with  cups  of  coffee,  she  filled 
glasses  from  various  taps,  she  saluted  Frank. 

"  How  are  you  this  evening.'*  Come  to  see  the  piece 
again?  " 

"  Come  to  see  you." 

"  Get  along ;  I  don't  believe  you,"  she  said,  and  she 
passed  back  to  her  place,  and  continued  talking  to  the 
soldier  as  steadily  as  her  many  occupations  would  allow 
her. 

A  few  moments  after  the  bell  rang,  and  Frank  went 
upstairs  annoyed. 

"  Oh,  so  it  is  you ;  you  have  come  back,"  said  Helen, 
turning;  "sit  down  here.  Nellie  Farren  has  just  sung 
such  an  exquisitely  funny  song;  they  have  encored  it; 


102 

just  listen  to  it,  do,"  and  Helen  fixed  her  opera  glass  on 
the  actress.  The  light  and  shadow  played  about  her 
neck  and  arm  in  beautiful  variations,  but  noticing  noth- 
ing, Frank  leaned  forward. 

"  Isn't  it  funny ;  isn't  it  delightfully  funny  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  funny." 

Having  heard  one  song  they  listened  to  the  rest  of  the 
act.  "  Now  give  me  my  cloak.  Thank  you,  and  now 
give  me  your  arm."  Frank  complied.  "  You  will  come 
home  to  Green  Street  with  me,  and  have  some  supper  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid,  I  am  sorry  I  can't ;  I  must  get  home 
early  to-night." 

"  You  have  a  key,  you  surely  can  get  in  at  any  hour." 

"  Yes,  but  I  am  afraid — the  fact  is  I  am  dreadfully 
tired." 

"  Oh,  just  as  you  like." 

Then  at  the  end  of  an  irritating  silence,  "  I  am  afraid 
you  will  have  to  wait,  I  do  not  think  I  shall  be  able  to 
get  your  carriage  yet  awhile;  in  a  few  minutes  the  crowd 
will  disperse.  No  use  getting  crushed  to  death!  What 
became  of  Harding  and  Fletcher.''  Did  they  remain  long 
with  you  ?  " 

"  No,  not  very,  they  went  away  just  before  you  came. 
There  is  Mr.  Harding.  How  did  you  like  the  piece,  Mr. 
Harding?  " 

"  I  always  enjoy  these  pieces,  they  are  so  conscien- 
tiously illiterate;  what  I  can't  bear  is  unconscientious 
illiterateness.  Nellie  Farren  has  caught  something  of 
the  jangle  of  modern  life;  she  has  something  of  the 
freshness  of  the  music-hall  about  her  that  appeals  to 
me  very  sharply." 

"  Do  you  like  music-halls }  I  have  always  heard  they 
were  so  vulgar." 

"  Vulgarity  is  surely  preferable  to  popidarity.  The 
theatre  is  merely  popular." 

While  Harding  was   thus  exerting  himself  with  epi- 


108 

gram^  Fletcher  stood  tall  and  slender,  with  a  grey  over- 
coat hanging  over  his  arm,  and  his  intense  eyes  fixed 
on  Lady  Seveley.  His  gaze  troubled  her,  and  when  he 
withdrew  his  eyes  she  looked  at  him,  anticipant  and 
fearing.  He  spoke  to  her  until  Frank,  feeling  that  he 
was  receding  out  of  all  interest  and  attention,  said 
abruptly,  "  If  you  will  come  now.  Lady  Seveley,  I  think 
I  shall  be  able  to  get  your  carriage.  May  I  see  you 
home?  "  he  said,  holding  the  door. 

"  No,  thank  you,  I  will  not  take  you  out  of  your  way. 
Go  home  at  once  and  get  rested,  and  come  and  see  me 
one  of  these  days;  don't  forget."  Lady  Seveley  smiled, 
but  Frank  felt  that  she  was  annoyed. 

"  I  wonder  if  she  wanted  me  to  go  home  with  her. 
That  impertinent  brute  Fletcher  daring  to  come  up  to 
speak  to  us!  I  was  very  nearly  telling  him  to  go  and 
fetch  the  carriage." 

He  pushed  open  the  swinging  doors  with  violence, 
nearly  upsetting  the  fat  porter.  The  bar  was  nearly 
empty,  and  he  found  Lizzie  disengaged. 

"  You  look  very  vexed.  Has  any  one  been  pinching 
you?  " 

"  I  am  not  vexed." 

"  What  will  you  have  to  put  you  straight  ?  " 

"  Well,  that  is  a  question.  Let  me  see.  I  don't  care 
about  another  brandy  and  soda,  and  if  I  have  coffee  it 
may  keep  me  awake." 

"  Have  half  milk." 

"  Very  well."  He  hesitated,  but  the  inclination  to 
speak  soon  overpowered  him.  "  I  call  it  bad  form,  when 
you  are  with  a  lady  for  another  fellow  to  come  up  and 
speak  to  her." 

"  Three  of  Irish,  miss." 

"  Why,  didn't  he  know  her?  " 

"  Of  course,  he  knew  her,  but  that  doesn't  give  him  a 


104 

right  to  come  up  and  enter  into  a  long  conversation  when 
I  am  with  her.     I  wish  I  had  knocked  him  down." 

"  He  might  have  knocked  you  down." 

"  A  glass  of  bitter,  miss." 

"  I  should  have  had  to  take  my  chance  of  that.  In 
London  people  don't  seem  to  me  to  mind  whom  they 
speak  to — a  low-bred  Irishman,  who  never  spoke  to  a 
lady  until  he  left  his  own  country." 

"  Oh !  what  a  rage  we  are  in." 

"  No,  I  am  not  in  a  rage,"  said  Frank,  who  at  that 
moment  felt  the  folly  of  these  confidences.  "  I  don't 
care  a  hang.  It  isn't  as  if  it  were  a  woman  I  cared 
about.     Had  it  been  you " 

"  Get  along,  don't  you  tell  me." 

"  I  assure  you  I  speak  only  in  a  general  way,  and  you 
must  admit  that  if  you  go  out  with  a  fellow  it  would  not 
be  nice  of  you  to  begin  talking  to  some  one  else." 

"  Oh !  I  never  do  that." 

"  There,  then  you  admit  I  was  right,  I  was  sure  you 
would;  I  don't  care  a  hang  for  the  lady  I  was  with,  but 
I  don't  intend  to  allow  any  one  to  insult  me.  But  I 
wonder  how  you  can  speak  to  soldiers." 

"  They  are  no  worse  than  the  others.  Besides,  in  our 
business  we  have  to  be  polite  to  every  one." 

"  Polite,  yes — ^but  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you,  I  came 
down  from  my  box  on  purpose  to  speak  to  you,  and  I 
couldn't,  you  were  so  engaged  with  that  soldier." 

"  He  was  here  before  you ;  you  would  not  like  it  if 
you  were  talking  to  me,  and  I  were  to  rush  off  to  speak 
to  some  one  else." 

"  One  Scotch  and  three  Irish,  miss,  and  out  of  the 
bottle,  please,  our  friend  here's  most  particular,  he  would 
like  it  in  a  thin  glass,  too — wouldn't  you,  Ted.''  and  if 
he  could  have  a  go  at  that  pretty  mouth  he  would  like  it 
better  still.  A  rare  one  after  the  ladies  is  Teddy. 
Aren't  you,  old  chap?  " 


105 

Full  of  scorn  Frank  watched  this  noisy  group.  Lizzie 
remained  talking  with  them  for  some  little  time,  and  she 
did  not  return  until  he  called  to  her  twice  for  a  cigar. 

"  How  very  impatient  you  are/'  she  said,  handing  him 
the  box. 

"  You  were  talking  to  me,  and  you  go  away  to  talk  to 
those  cads." 

"  I  must  serve  the  customers,  you  naughty  man.  You 
can't  have  me  all  to  yourself.  I  believe  you  would  like 
to." 

"  That  I  should.  I  wish  you  would  come  out  with  me. 
I  wish  you  would  come  to  dinner." 

"  And  what  would  the  lady  say  who  you  went  to  the 
theatre  with  to-night,  and  were  so  mad  because  some 
one  spoke  to  her  ?  " 

"  I  assure  you  she  is  nothing  to  me,  a  mere  acquaint- 
ance. I  was  angry  because  I  thought  it  a  piece  of  im- 
pertinence of  the  fellow  to  come  intruding  his  conversa- 
tion when  it  wasn't  wanted ;  but  as  for  the  woman  I  don't 
care  a  snap  for  her;  never  did,  I  assure  you:  she  is 
nothing  to  me.     I  suppose  you  don't  get  out  much  here." 

"  We  are  off  duty  for  so  many  hours  every  day ;  but 
we  must  be  in  at  a  certain  time." 

"  But  you  have  got  Sundays." 

"  We  get  Sunday  in  our  turn."  '  . 

"  When  will  your  turn  come }  " 

"  I  am  going  out  next  Sunday." 

"  I  wish  you  would  come  with  me ;  I  would  take  you 
up  the  river.     You  know  the  river .''  " 

"  No,  I  don't  know  even  what  you  mean." 

"  You  mean  to  say  you  have  never  been  up  the  river, 
not  even  so  far  as  Twickenham  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Well,  then,  you  have  a  treat.  The  most  beautiful 
thing  in  England  is  the  Thames — perhaps  in  the  world. 
Last  year  I  spent  nearly  three  months  at  Marlow  and 


106 

Maidenhead — we  positively  lived  in  a  boat.  I  have  a 
beautiful  boat.  I  should  like  to  take  you  out — you 
would  enjoy  it.     Are  you  fond  of  boating?  " 

"  I  love  it.  I  haven't  been  in  a  boat  since  I  left 
Wales." 

"  So  you  are  a  Welsh  girl.  My  boat  is  now  at  Read- 
ing. If  you  could  get  away  early  in  the  morning  we 
might  manage  to  catch  the  nine  o'clock  express  that  takes 
us  down  in  a  little  over  the  hour.  I'd  have  the  hamper 
packed;  and  we  would  have  our  lunch  up  in  the  Pang- 
bourne  Woods.  It  would  be  so  jolly.  I  wish  you  would 
come." 

"  I  should  like  it  immensely ;  I  don't  know  if  I  could 
manage  it." 

"  Do  you  say  you  will  come,  do." 

Lizzie  stood  hesitating,  her  finger  on  her  lip.  A  girl 
entered  the  bar  and  whispered  something  to  her  as  she 
passed. 

"  I  must  go  away  now,  I'm  off  duty." 

"  Say  you  will  come." 

"  I  can't  say  yet;  I  shall  see  you  again," 

As  Frank  turned  to  go  he  caught  sight  of  Harding  and 
Fletcher,  He  did  not  see  that  they  had  been  watching 
him,  and  when  they  called  him  he  went  over  to  their 
table. 

"  What  will  you  have  ?  "  said  Harding. 

"  Nothing,  thanks,  I  could  not  drink  anything  more." 

"  Have  a  cigarette." 

"  Thanks,  I  will ;  I  cannot  smoke  this  beastly  cigar. 
I  do  not  know  why  I  asked  for  it." 

"  Sit  down." 

The  conversation  turned  on  the  play,  but  at  the  first 
pause  in  the  conversation,  Harding  said:  "Pretty  girl, 
that  girl  you  were  talking  to  at  the  bar." 

"  Yes ;  is  she  not .?  I  think  she  is  one  of  the  prettiest 
girls  I  ever  saw  in  my  life." 


107 

"  Far  better  looking  than  Lady  Seveley." 

"  I  should  rather  think  so ;  Lady  Seveley  is  over 
thirty." 

"  The  choice  would  be  a  nice  test  of  a  young  man's 
moral  character." 

"  Did  you  write  that  this  morning,  or  are  you  going 
to  write  it  to-morrow  morning?  " 

"  You  have  not  told  me  which,  when  you  do " 

"  I  see  you  are  not  in  a  hurry  to  bring  your  book  out." 

Harding  laughed,  and  Frank  was  pleased  at  the  idea 
of  getting  the  better  of  Harding;  Fletcher  sat  with  his 
eyes  glittering  and  his  lips  slightly  parted.  Who  would 
hesitate  between  a  lady  of  rank  and  a  barmaid?  She 
might  be  a  pretty  girl,  but  what  of  that?  There  are 
hundreds  as  pretty.  He  had  never  been  the  lover  of  a 
lady,  and  his  heart  was  aflame.  Soon  after  the  men 
parted  in  the  street,  and  Frank  went  from  them,  fearful 
of  his  lonely  rooms,  and  longing  for  his  friends  at  South- 
wick. 

He  lunched  every  day  at  the  Gaiety,  and  he  at  length 
succeeded  in  persuading  Lizzie  to  come  to  Reading  with 
him. 

Town  was  miserably  Simday  when  he  drove  up  to 
Paddington  at  a  quarter  past  eight.  "  If  it  should  rain, 
if  it  should  turn  out  a  pouring  wet  day,  what  should  I 
do  ?  That  would  be  too  terrible !  "  He  felt  the  boat 
alive  beneath  his  oars,  the  river  placid  and  gentle,  and 
all  the  charm  of  the  rushes,  the  cedars,  the  locks,  and  the 
blonde  beautiful  girl  in  the  stern  with  the  parasol  he  had 
bought  her  aslant.  Let  him  have  this  day,  and  he  didn't 
care  what  happened !  He  wanted  to  show  her  the  river, 
he  wanted  to  joy  for  a  day  in  her  presence. 

He  was  more  than  half  an  hour  in  advance.  Would 
she  come?  She  had  promised,  but  she  might  disappoint. 
That  would  be  worse  than  the  rain.  He  would  wait  till 
ten  o'clock.     There  was  another  train  at  ten,  but  if  they 


108 

missed  the  ten  to  nine  the  day  would  be  spoilt,  lost.  Sup- 
posing she  did  not  come,  what  would  he  do? — drive 
back  through  dingy  London  and  eat  a  lonely  breakfast 
in  that  horrible  brick  Pump  Court?  He  could  scarcely 
do  that.  Would  he  go  to  Reading  by  himself?  The 
light  of  a  flowing  stream,  the  secrets  of  the  rushes  and 
murmuring  woods  died;  nature  became  voiceless. 

"  It  will  be  a  pity  if  she  doesn't  come.  We  shall  have 
a  fine  day,  I  am  sure  it  is  going  to  be  a  fine  day,  but  we 
shall  miss  that  train.  I  wonder  if  I  can  see  anything  of 
her.  I  don't  know  what  side  she  will  come  from.  I 
suppose  she'll  take  a  cab.  Perhaps  she  won't  come  at 
all;  will  she  come? — she  promised  me.  By  Jove,  twenty 
minutes  to  nine.  If  she  isn't  here  in  five  minutes  we  shall 
miss  the  train."  His  passion  grew  in  intensity,  and 
hope  was  dead,  when  he  heard  sounds  of  running  foot- 
steps, and  saw  the  great  girl  holding  her  hat  with  one 
hand  and  her  dress  with  the  other.  The  torture  of  ex- 
pectation was  worth  the  rapture  of  relief,  and  he  said, 
delighted :  "  So  you  have  come,  have  you  ?  One  minute 
more  and  you  would  have  been  late." 

"Why,  were  you  going?" 

"  No,  but  the  train  is.  We  have  three  minutes.  I'll 
run  and  get  the  tickets.  How  is  it  that  you  are  so 
late?" 

"  I  just  missed  the  train." 

"What  train?  " 

"  The  Metropolitan." 

"  The  Metropolitan  ?  What  nonsense !  Why  didn't 
you  take  a  cab?  " 

She  had  been  afraid  of  spending  the  money,  fearing 
she  might  not  see  him  after  all;  and  out  of  breath  she 
followed  him  along  the  platform.  "  No,  not  in  there ; 
I  don't  like  travelling  alone  with  gentlemen."  Frank 
looked  at  her  in  amazement,  and  they  got  into  a  carriage 
where  an  old  gentleman  was  sitting. 


109 

"  So  you  thought  I  wouldn't  come,  you  naughty  boy  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  should  have  been  so  disappointed.  I  don't 
know  what  I  should  have  done." 

Lizzie  watched  the  young  aristocratic  face;  his  earnest- 
ness drew  her  towards  him,  and  she  wondered  she  did 
not  like  him  better.  "  Now  tell  me  what  we  are  going 
to  do.  I  had  such  difficulty  in  getting  away.  It  is 
against  the  rules;  and  the  manageress  (the  fat  woman 
who  stands  at  the  end  of  the  bar  and  goes  round  and 
collects  the  money)  hates  me.  She  would  have  stopped 
me  if  she  could,  but  I  went  to  the  manager ;  he  is  a  friend 
of  mine." 

"  That  fellow  with  the  long  fair  moustache  that  walks 
about  at  the  rate  of  seven  miles  an  hour,  with  his  frock- 
coat  all  unbuttoned.  Harding  the  novelist — the  fellow 
I  was  sitting  with  the  other  night,  said  such  a  good 
thing — he  said  he  was  a  sort  of  apotheosis  of  sherry  and 
bitters.  I  don't  know  why  it  is  good,  but  it  is;  whether 
it  is  the  colour  of  his  face  and  moustache " 

"  He  is  very  proud  of  his  moustache,  and  your  friend 
is  quite  right;  he  is  very  fond  of  sherry  and  bitters — 
too  fond.  I  have  served  him  with  as  many  as  three  in 
an  afternoon,  and  I  am  sure  he  wouldn't  have  refused 
another  if  he  could  have  found  any  one  to  stand  it. 
Oh,  look  at  the  country!  How  pretty  it  is! — the  cows, 
the  corn  growing,  the  birds  and  all  the  light  clouds;  we 
are  going  to  have  a  lovely  day.  Shall  we  see  much  of 
the  country  at  Reading.''  Tell  me,  where  are  you  going 
to  take  me.''  Shall  we  go  for  a  walk  in  the  woods? 
Are  there  any  woods  .f*     I  hope  there  are." 

"  The  most  beautiful  woods  in  England — Pangbourne 
Woods.  We  shall  arrive  in  Reading  about  a  quarter  to 
ten.  We'll  walk  down  to  the  river,  or  drive  if  you  like; 
it  is  only  a  few  minutes  to  walk  to  the  boat-house.  My 
boat  is  there — such  a  beauty!  We'll  row  up  to  the — 
and  that  reminds  me,  I  ordered  the  luncheon  basket  at 


110 

the  best  place  in  London,  you  know;  it  was  to  have  been 
at  my  place  last  night  at  eight  o'clock,  and  they  never 
sent  it.  We  shall  have  to  lunch  at  the  hotel.  Such  a 
beautiful  hotel,  high  up,  overlooking  the  river;  I  hope 
you  are  not  disappointed,  it  really  wasn't  my  fault.  We 
shall  have  an  excellent  lunch,  I  assure  you,  at  the  hotel." 

The  miles  fled  away,  and  in  the  comfort  and  speed  of 
the  broad  gauge  line,  an  hour  and  a  half  seemed  to 
them  like  a  minute. 

"What  kind  of  town  is  Reading?"  said  Lizzie, 
springing  from  the  carriage. 

"  Not  much  more  than  a  biscuit  manufactory.  A  lot 
of  red  brick  pill-box  looking  buildings  scattered  over  a 
flat  piece  of  ground.  We  shan't  see  the  town.  It's  a 
mile  from  here.     Huntley  and  Palmer,  you  know " 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  deal  with  them." 

"  Catch  hold  of  this  rug  while  I  get  the  tickets  out. 
Shall  we  walk  or  drive?  " 

"  Let's  walk." 

They  stepped  along  gaily,  and  they  were  soon  standing 
on  the  wharf,  Frank  criticising  the  boats  and  the  rowing, 
Lizzie  all  white  in  the  sunlight,  a  little  dumbfoimded  and 
astonished.  Then  he  turned  into  the  boat-house,  and 
reappeared  soon  after,  his  arms  bare,  the  sun  on  his 
neck. 

"  You  got  my  telegram  ?     My  boat  is  ready  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  we  got  her  out  this  morning." 

"  I  suppose  a  lot  of  people  wanted  to  have  her,  they 
all  went  for  her,  I'll  bet." 

"  Yes,  sir,  a  good  many  gentlemen  asked  if  they  could 
have  her." 

It  seemed  to  please  Frank  that  he  had  caused  so  many 
to  be  disappointed.  "  Well,  get  her  out,  we  have  no 
time  to  lose." 

The  man  stepped  from  one  fleet  of  skiffs  to  another, 
he  caught  at  several  boats  with  his  boat-hook,  but  Frank's 


Ill 

boat  could  not  be  found.  He  shouted  to  his  man  who 
was  sculling  towards  an  island  opposite.  "  What  has 
become  of  Mr.  Escott's  boat?  I  took  her  out  myself  this 
morning." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  what  is  the  use  of  my  sending 
you  telegrams  if  I  am  delayed  in  this  way  ?  " 

"  My  man  will  be  here  in  a  second,  sir." 

"  Now,  then,  do  be  quick,  stir  yourself,  I  don't  want 
to  stand  about  here  all  day." 

The  assistant  scratched  his  head.  Finally  it  tran- 
spired that  that  party  down  the  river — that  party  just 
gone  away — must  have  had  the  boat.  He  didn't  know 
anything  about  it,  it  wasn't  his  fault.  They  said  they 
had  engaged  that  boat  over-night. 

"  My  boat  let  out  for  hire !  How  dare  you  do  this  ? 
I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing;  I  shall  write  to  the 
papers." 

"  I  will  give  you  just  as  good  a  boat,  sir " 

"  As  good  a  boat !  You  haven't  a  boat  like  it.  How 
do  I  know  you  don't  let  my  boat  out  for  hire  every  day?  " 

"  No  danger  of  that,  sir ;  I  will  give  you  another  boat, 
one  that  you  will  be  pleased  with." 

"  My  boat  knocked  about  by  some  cad !  He  won't  be 
back  till  nine  o'clock  to-night,  perhaps.  I  never  heard 
of  such  a  thing.     Which  is  it  ?  " 

"  That  one  with  the  lady  in  the  stern — the  red 
parasol." 

"  He  must  be  caught  up,  he  must.  Have  you  got  an 
outrigger  ?  "  Assuring  Lizzie  that  he  would  be  back  in 
less  than  half  an  hour,  Frank  bent  to  his  work. 

"  If  he  rows  like  that  he  will  run  down  some  one," 
muttered  the  boatman.     "  Confound  him  and  his  boat !  " 

The  outrigger  shot  through  the  water;  the  various 
craft  paused,  surprised  at  such  furious  rowing.  Lizzie 
watched  the  race,  asking  the  boatman  if  there  was  danger. 

"  Danger  ?     No ;  but  he'd  better  not  say  too  much  to 


112 

that  gent  when  he  does  catch  him  up,  or  there'll  be  a  row, 
I  expect.  He's  going  round  the  bend;  if  he  doesn't 
run  into  something,  he'll  catch  them,"  said  the  boatman. 
"  Would  you  like  to  look  through  my  glass,  miss  ? 
They'll  be  coming  back  presently." 

Angry  language  was  indulged  in,  but  the  apologies 
of  the  boatmen  saved  the  young  men  the  unpleasantness 
of  blows,  and,  elated  at  his  success,  Frank  handed  Lizzie 
into  the  truant  boat  and  paddled  out  into  the  stream. 
When  he  had  got  out  of  earshot  and  out  of  the  notice 
of  the  boat-house  he  rested  on  his  oars.  "  Did  you  see 
me  overhaul  them?  " 

"  No,  you  passed  out  of  sight  round  the  bend." 

"  Yes,  by  George !  I  had  a  good  pull  for  it.  There 
are  a  lot  of  red  parasols  up  higher,  and  I  had  to  look  out 
for  my  boat.     What  did  they  say  about  my  rowing.''  " 

"  They  said  you'd  catch  them  if  you  didn't  run  into 
something." 

"  Did  they  ?  I  was  wild ;  and — would  you  believe  it  ? 
— when  I  did  catch  them  up  the  fellow  began  to  object; 
he  didn't  want  to  come  back,  if  you  please.  He  said  he 
had  hired  the  boat,  that  he  did  not  know  the  boat  was 
mine — no  proof.  I  said,  '  I  will  give  you  proof,'  and  so 
I  would  have." 

"  I  was  afraid.  I  began  to  regret  that  I  had  come 
out  with  you." 

"  What  nonsense !  Done  the  fellow  good  if  I  had 
pimched  his  head.  Well,  it  has  taken  it  out  of  me  a  bit. 
I  had  to  put  on  a  bit  of  a  spurt  to  catch  them;  they  had 
such  a  start,  and  they  were  going  along  a  pretty  fair 
pace,  too.  It  has  made  me  feel  a  bit  peckish,  a  pull  like 
that  on  an  empty  stomach;  it  must  be  close  on  twelve 
o'clock.  What  do  you  say,  are  you  beginning  to  feel 
that  it  is  lunch  time?  " 

"  I  am  not  very  hungry,  and  you  forgot  the  luncheon 


118 

basket.  I  ought  to  have  reminded  you  to  get  some  sand- 
wiches at  the  railway  station." 

"  Sandwiches !  I  don't  want  sandwiches ;  I  want  some- 
thing more  substantial  than  sandwiches.  I'll  paddle  on; 
we  aren't  more  than  a  ten  minutes'  paddle  from  the 
*  Roebuck,'  a  ripping  nice  hotel,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  Couldn't  we  have  something  to  eat  without  going  to 
an  hotel.''  " 

"  I  don't  think  so.  I  want  a  bottle  of  fizz,  and  the 
fizz  there  is  excellent ;  one  of  the  best  hotels  on  the  river ; 
splendid  gardens  and  tennis  grounds,  a  great  room  over- 
looking the  river;  the  best  people  go  there;  sometimes 
one  can't  get  a  table." 

"  I  don't  think  I'm  well  dressed  enough." 

"  You  look  charming,  a  cotton  dress  and  a  parasol  is 
all  one  wants  for  the  river." 

"  You  are  not  ashamed  of  me,  then ;  you'll  take  me  as 
I   am?" 

"  Ashamed  of  you !  Steer  straight  for  that  post — 
that's  it,  bravo !  "  Frank  shipped  the  oars,  and  when 
he  felt  the  girl's  arm  laid  on  his  as  he  helped  her  to  land, 
it  seemed  to  him  that  all  the  world  was  happiness.  The 
spirit  of  the  river,  the  fields  and  sky,  leaped  to  his  eyes. 
He  assisted  her  to  ascend  the  steps  cut  in  the  hillside. 
She  laughed  and  laughed  again,  and  stopped  to  rest. 
At  last  they  stood  on  the  railway  line.  It  swept  round 
another  hill  all  overshadowed  and  dark  with  cedars. 

"  Here  comes  a  train,  let's  wait.  I  must  see  it  go 
round  the  curve." 

"  You  shoiild  see  the  Bath  express  come  along  the 
broad  gauge  at  the  rate  of  sixty  miles  an  hour." 

"  This  is  not  an  express }  " 

"  No." 

The  luggage  train  came  with  an  interminable  rumble 
and  jingle,  and  Lizzie  waited  till  the  last  truck  passed 
under  the  branches.     Then  they  went  to  an  hotel  full  of 


114 

daylight  and  stained  wood,  with  glimpses  of  barmaids 
far  away,  and  waiters  running  about;  the  rooms  glistened 
with  table  linen;  the  waiters  carved  at  a  sideboard  cov- 
ered with  pies,  sirloins,  hams,  tongues.  Only  one  table 
was  occupied,  and  the  waiters  were  lavishing  all  atten- 
tion upon  it.  Lady  Seveley  leaned  back  smoking  a 
cigarette.  Fletcher  sat  next  to  her,  alternately  affecting 
indifference  and  fixing  her  with  his  eyes.  Harding  was 
voluble  and  observant.  There  was  about  them  an  air 
of  thirty  and  the  dissipations  of  thirty.  And,  not  in  the 
least  ashamed  of  Lizzie,  Frank  bowed  to  Lady  Seveley; 
she  returned  his  bow  by  a  slight  nod;  and  Lizzie,  very 
much  embarrassed,  nodded  to  the  men;  they  smiled  in 
return. 

"  Who  is  that  lady  you  saluted.?  " 

"Lady  Seveley;  the  lady  I  told  you  about,  who  I 
went  to  the  theatre  with  the  other  night." 

"  Fancy  a  lady  like  that  smoking  a  cigarette !  " 

A  waiter  approached  with  the  bill  of  fare.  "  We  had 
better  not  have  anything  hot,  we  shall  lose  the  whole  day. 
What  do  you  say?  " 

"  Cold  sirloin  of  beef  is  excellent,  sir ;  pigeon  pie  is 
also  very  good — young  birds," 

"  Shall  we  try  the  pigeon  pie  ?  Get  me  the  wine  list. 
Take  ojff  your  hat,  Lizzie,  do." 

"  I  am  afraid  my  hair  will  come  down." 

"  Never  mind,  so  much  the  better." 

With  some  difficulty  she  extracted  her  hat  from  the 
hairpins,  and  the  bright  hair  hung  loose  about  her  white 
plump  face.  Frank  drank  a  glass  of  champagne;  he 
was  proud  of  her  beauty. 

"  By  Jove,  how  this  does  pick  one  up !  not  half  bad 
tipple,  is  it  ?  " 

They  hastened  through  their  limch,  unconsciously 
avoiding  the  too  critical  looks  of  those  at  the  far  corner 
table;  nor  did  they  suspect,  as  they  descended  the  hill 


116 

and  got  into  their  boat  and  rowed  away,  that  they  were 
still  the  subject  of  conversation. 

"  She  is  no  doubt  a  very  pretty  girl.  He  seems  very 
fond  of  her.     I  hope  he  won't  make  a  fool  of  himself." 

"  I  think  he  is  '  mashed.'  We  saw  him  the  other  night 
in  the  bar.  He  was  paying  her  a  great  deal  of  attention 
— the  night  we  saw  you  at  the  theatre." 

Lady  Seveley's  face  slightly  altered.  Harding  noticed 
the  change  of  expression,  and  he  said :  "  She  is  called 
the  belle  of  the  bar.  Hers  is  the  kind  of  prettiness  that 
appeals  to  a  young  man,  for  somehow,  I  cannot  explain, 
it  is  a  thing  you  must  feel;  she  epitomises  as  it  were 
the  beauty  of  the  English  girl;  she  is  the  typical  pretty 
English  girl;  all  that  English  girls  have  of  charm,  she 
has;  and  the  co-ordination  is  an  irresistible  force  against 
some  young  men;  their  natures  demand  the  freshness, 
the  spontaneity,  the  innocence  of " 

"  Of  the  Gaiety  bar !  I  have  never  been  there,  but 
from  what  you  tell  me  of  it,  it  is  the  last  place  to  find 
innocence  and  freshness." 

"  That  may  be  or  not  be.  We  find  a  rose  blooming 
in  very  out-of-the-way  places;  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
I  made  no  accusation  of  virtue;  vice  does  not  rob  a  youth 
of  its  spontaneity.  You  may  rouge  the  cheeks  of  May 
and  blacken  her  eyes,  but  she  is  May  nevertheless.  I 
say  that  the  lover  of  the  young  girl  cannot  love  the  woman 
of  thirty.  Her  charms  touch  him  not  at  all;  but  there 
are  others  who  may  love  only  the  woman  of  thirty;  and, 
strange  to  say,  they  are  only  loved  by  the  woman  of 
thirty.  The  universal  Don  Juan  is  a  myth,  and  does  not 
exist  out  of  literature.  There  is  the  Don  Juan  who  plays 
havoc  among  the  women  of  thirty,  there  is  the  Don  Juan 
who  plays  havoc  among  young  girls,  but " 

"  And  you  think  our  friend  Frank  Escott  belongs  to 
the  latter  class  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't.     He  is  good-looking;  he  is  to  all  ap- 


116 

pearance  a  young  man  that  any  woman  would  like,  but 
I  don't  think  you'd  find  this  to  be  so  if  it  were  given  to 
you  to  see  into  his  life.  Every  man  of  the  world  must 
have  noticed  that  there  are  times  when,  speaking  gen- 
erally, every  second  woman  will  run  after  him — ^ladies 
of  rank,  prostitutes,  maid-servants — when  he  may  pick 
and  choose  his  mistresses,  and  change  his  mind  as  often 
as  he  pleases;  there  are  other  times  when  he  finds  him- 
self womanless,  when  none  will  look  at  him,  when  in 
fact  without  an  allusion  to  rings,  and  sometimes  a  very 
direct  allusion  is  required,  he  will  not  be  able  to  persuade 
a  chorus  girl  to  come  out  to  supper  with  him.  He  thinks 
he  is  getting  old,  he  looks  in  the  glass  with  fear." 

"  You  mean  to  say  there  are  men  who  look  in  the  glass 
with  fear?" 

"  Of  course,  after  five-and-thirty  the  glass  whispers 
as  awful  truths  to  the  man  as  to  the  woman — worse,  for 
woman's  youth  is  longer  than  man's.  The  contrary  is  the 
received  opinion,  but,  like  all  popular  opinions,  it  is 
wrong;  a  woman  is  frequently  loved  after  forty,  a  man 
never.  I  was  saying  that  a  man  often  thinks  he  is  get- 
ting old  because  the  chorus  girl  took  an  early  opportunity 
of  speaking  of  rings,  because  the  lady  of  fashion  begged 
of  the  old  gentleman  who  had  taken  up  his  hat  to  go  to 
stay  a  little  while  longer,  because  the  chamber-maid  did 
not  look  lusciously  round  the  corner  when  he  passed  her 
in  the  passage.  He  looks  in  the  glass  and  imagines  all 
kinds  of  monstrous  changes  in  his  person.  His  fears 
have  no  foundation  in  fact — or  should  I  say  in  the  flesh? 
A  year  after  the  duchess  makes  overtures,  the  chorus  girl 
threatens  to  throw  up  her  engagement  for  him,  and  the 
chamber-maid  pesters  him  with  unnecessary  questions 
concerning  baths  and  towels.  These  facts  tend  to  show, 
indeed  I  think  they  prove,  that  love  is  a  magnetism, 
which    sometimes     we    possess     in     almost    irresistible 


117 

strength,  and  which  sometimes  fades  away  into  power- 
less  and   apparent  extinction." 

"  Then  you  think  that  good  looks  have  nothing  to  do 
with  the  faculty  of  making  oneself  beloved  ?  "  said 
Fletcher. 

"  The  phenomenon  of  love  has  hitherto  eluded  our  most 
eager  investigation;  when  we  have  traced  each  desire 
to  its  source,  and  classified " 

"  We  women  will  have  ceased  to  take  any  interest  in 
the  matter.  What  a  humbug  you  are,  Mr.  Harding;  one 
never  knows  when  you  are  serious.  But  what  has  all 
this  to  do  with  that  poor  boy  who  has  gone  oflf  with  his 
barmaid  ?  " 

"  This :  he  is  unquestionably  good-looking,  but  I  don't 
think  he  possesses  at  all  the  magnetism,  the  power — 
call  it  what  you  will — that  I  have  been  speaking  of.  He 
will  never  influence  either  men  or  women,  he  will  never 
make  friends;  that  is  to  say,  he  will  never  make  use  of 
his  friends.  He  will,  I  should  think,  always  remain  a 
little  outside  of  success.  It  will  never  quite  come  to 
him;  he  will  be  one  of  those  muddled,  dissatisfied  crea- 
tures who  rail  against  luck  and  bad  treatment.  I  can- 
not see  him  really  successful  in  anything;  yes,  I  can, 
though,  I  believe  he  would  make  an  excellent  husband. 
I  have  spoken  a  great  deal  to  him.  He  has  told  me  a 
lot  about  himself,  and  I  can  see  that  he  asks  and  desires 
nothing  but  leave  to  devote  himself  to  a  woman,  to  pander 
to  her  caprices.  All  that  violent  exterior  will  wear  off, 
and  he  will  yield  to  and  love  to  be  led  by  a  woman.  He 
writes  a  little,  and  he  paints.  I  don't  know  if  he  has 
any  talent;  but  he  never  will  be  able  to  work  until  he  is 
obliged  to  work  for  a  woman." 

"  Then  you  think  he  will  marry  that  barmaid  ?  " 

"  Most  probably.  He  will  struggle  against  it ;  but 
unless  chance  intervenes — she  may  die,  she  may  run  away 


118 

with  some  one  to-morrow,  for  she  does  not  care  for  him — 
he  will  be  sucked  into  the  gulf." 

"  He  is  Lord  Mount  Rorke's  heir;  he  will  have  twenty 
thousand  a  year  one  of  these  days." 

"  Mount  Rorke  will  never   forgive  him  a  bad  match. 
I  know  Mount  Rorke,"  said  Lady  Seveley,  "  and  you  do, 
too,  Mr.  Fletcher." 
"Yes,  a  little." 

Unfearing  prophecy  and  oracle  launched  from  the  win- 
dows of  the  hotel,  the  young  people  rowed,  lost  to  all  but 
each  other,  amazed  at  the  loveliness  of  the  river.     They 
floated    amid    the    bulrushes.     Cries    and    regret    when 
Frank's  oar  crushed  the  desired  blossom.     Never  before 
were  lilies  as  desirable  as  those  that  were  gathered  that 
day — that  bud,  it  must  be  possessed,  that  blown  flower 
must  not  be  left  behind.     Lizzie  dipped  her  arm  to  the 
elbow,  and  rejoiced  in  the  soft  flowing  water.     The  river 
rose  up  into  what  beautiful  views  and  prospects.     The 
locks,  the  sensation  of  the  boat  sinking  among  the  slimy 
pUes  with  Frank  erect  holding  her   off  with  the  boat- 
hook,  or  the  slow  rising  till  the  banks  were  overflowed, 
and     the     wonderful     wooden     gates     opened,     disclos- 
ing  a    placid    stream   with    overhanging   boughs    and    a 
barge.     And  the  charming  discoveries  they  made  in  this 
water  world,  the  moorhen's  indolence,  and  the  watchful 
rat  swimming  for  its  hole;  each  bend  was  a  new  picture. 
How  beautifully  expressive  of  the  work  of  the  field  were 
the  comfortable  barns.    If  life  is  never  very  fair,  a  vision 
of  life  may  be  fair  indeed,  and  once  the  tears  came  to  the 
bar  girl's  eyes,  for  she,  too,  suddenly  remembered  her 
life  of  tobacco  and  whisky;  long  weary  hours  of  stand- 
ing, politeness,  washing  glasses,  and  listening  to  filthy 
jokes.     Would  there  be  no  change.''     If  she  might  live 
her  life  here!     She  thought  of  the  morning  light,  and 
the  home  occupations  of  the  morning,  and  then  the  Ian- 


119 

guid  and  lazy  afternoons  in  this  boat,  amid  the  enchant- 
ment of  these  river  lands. 

Frank  laid  by  his  oars,  and  as  regardless  as  a  shop-boy 
of  observers,  he  took  her  hand  and  begged  of  her  to  con- 
fide in  him.  He  thought,  too,  of  seeing  her  daily,  hourly, 
of  her  presence  in  his  daily  life;  he  saw  her  amid  his 
painting  and  poetry,  and  this  pleasant  scenery.  Then 
the  vision  vanished  like  the  shine  upon  the  stream,  she 
withdrew  her  hands,  a  shadow  had  fallen. 

They  passed  a  summer-house  where  three  girls  were 
sitting;  one  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  table  and  sang  the 
ballad  of  "  Biddy  Malone."  There  was  a  house  so  red, 
and  so  full  of  gables  and  narrow  windows,  that  Frank 
said  it  was  a  perfect  specimen  of  Elizabethan  archi- 
tecture; and  he  treated  Lizzie  to  all  he  could  pretend 
to  know  on  the  subject,  and  he  condemned  the  owner 
for  the  glaringly  modern  garden  benches  with  which 
the  swards  were  interspersed.  The  sun  was  setting,  there 
was  lassitude  in  every  passing  boat,  the  girls  leaned  upon 
the  arms  of  the  young  men,  and  the  woods  stood  up  tall 
and  contemplative,  as  beautiful  in  the  deep  blue  river 
as  upon  the  pale  sky. 

They  landed  at  Pangbourne  Woods  by  the  wide  grassy 
path  between  the  reedy  river  and  the  spreading  beeches. 
There  a  man  was  boiling  a  kettle.  He  spoke  to  them; 
he  instructed  them  in  the  life  of  camping  out,  and  he 
invited  them  to  tea.  Lizzie  went  into  the  tent  and  got 
out  the  tea-things.  Two  men  came  up,  jolly  fellows 
enough;  and  such  little  adventures  endeared  and  memor- 
ised the  day. 

They  climbed,  oh!  what  a  climb  it  was,  Lizzie's  ankles 
and  courage  giving  way  alternately;  but  at  last  they 
reached  a  pathway,  and  they  walked  at  ease  into  the 
green  solitudes  of  the  wood.  It  seemed  endless,  so  soft 
and  so  still.  He  spoke  to  Lizzie,  whom  he  now  called 
Liz,  of  her  past,  of  the  reasons  that  had  led  her  to  leave 


120 

home  and  "  go  to  business."  Her  brother,  she  said,  was 
&  painter,  a  celebrated  bird-painter. 

"  Then  we  should  know  each  other,  I  am  a  painter." 
He  told  her  of  his  ideas  and  projects,  of  how  he  had 
been  to  France;  he  might  go  there  again,  unless  some- 
thing happened  to  keep  him  in  England.  He  wrote  a 
little,  too,  in  the  papers,  and  he  might  do  something  to 
help  her  brother — a  paragraph  in  Fashion,  he  could  get 
one  in.  For  fear  of  wounding  her  he  did  not  ask  if  her 
brother  was  a  decorative  painter,  employed  by  a  firm, 
or  an  artist  who  exhibited  pictures.  Her  father  had 
married  again.  She  did  not  like  her  stepmother,  and 
that  had  determined  her  to  go  into  business. 

Had  she  ever  been  in  love?  Yes,  she  supposed  she 
had;  but  it  was  all  over  now.  The  last  words  sounded, 
and  died  away,  in  a  great  abyss  of  soul. 

Parts  of  the  path  were  marked  "  Dangerous."  The 
earth  had  given  way,  creating  fearful  chasms,  over  which 
trees  leaned  dangerously  or  hung  out  fantastically  by  a 
few  roots.  In  the  dell  below  there  stood  a  small  green 
painted  table,  and  the  young  people  leaning  on  the  pro- 
tecting railing  wondered  at  this  mysterious  piece  of  fur- 
niture. There  was  in  them  and  about  them  an  illusive 
sense  of  death  and  the  beauty  of  life.  One  slight  push 
would  hurl  them  headlong  hundreds  of  feet  down  to  the 
painted  table. 

The  silver  of  the  river  sparkled  through  silence  and 
the  foliage  of  June,  and  the  songs  of  the  boatmen  came 
and  went  like  voices  in  a  dream. 

The  days  of  youth  are  long,  and  in  tender  idleness 
the  hours  lingered,  their  charm  unbroken  in  the  rattle 
of  London;  and  happy  with  love  and  tired  with  the 
great  air  of  the  river  and  its  leafy  scenery,  Frank  fell 
asleep  that  night. 


121 


CHAP.  VII. 

ONE  of  the  French  artists  he  had  met  in  Rome  wrote 
to  him  from  Paris.  Why  should  he  not  go  there?  There 
was  nothing  for  him  to  do  in  London;  Lizzie  Baker  had 
disappeared,  and  in  the  year  and  a  half  that  he  spent  in 
Paris  learning  to  draw  he  forgot  her  and  his  friends  in 
Southwick.  Nor  did  he  remember  them  when  he  re- 
turned to  London;  not  until  one  evening,  strolling  down 
Regent  Street,  he  came  upon  Willy  Brookes  suddenly. 

"  How  do  you  do,  my  dear  Willy  ?  I  haven't  seen  you 
for — for — -how  long.^  " 

"  I  should  think  it  must  be  now,  let  me  see,  I  have  got 
it  down  somewhere;  when  I  get  home  I'll  look  it  up." 

"  Hang  the  looking  up ;  better  come  and  look  me  up." 

The  young  men  laughed. 

"  It  must  be  nearly  a  year  and  a  half." 

"  I  should  think  it  must.  Where  are  you  staying? 
I  am  staying  at  Morley's  Hotel,  Trafalgar  Square. 
Come  and  dine  with  me  to-night." 

Willy  reflected.     He  stroked  his  moustache  reflectively. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  am  afraid  I  can't.  I  have  some- 
thing to  do." 

"  Nonsense !  I  don't  believe  you.  What  have  you 
to  do?" 

"  I  have  some  cheques  to  write." 

"  That  won't  take  you  a  moment.  You  can  do  that  at 
my  place." 

"  I  couldn't,  I  assure  you.  I  must  have  my  books 
and  my  own  pen.  I  wouldn't  write  a  cheque  in  that  way 
for  worlds." 

"  Why  not  ?     We'll  go  to  a  music-hall  afterwards." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  but  I  really  couldn't — not  to-night." 

"  You  never  go  in  for  amusing  yourself." 

"Yes,  I  do;  but  what  amuses  you  doesn't  amuse  me. 


122 

I  assure  you  I  would  sooner  stay  at  home,  write  my 
cheques,  and  enter  them  carefully,  than  go  to  a  music- 
hall." 

Frank  looked  at  Willy  for  a  moment  in  mute  amaze- 
ment. Then  he  said :  "  But  what's  that  you  have  under 
your  arm  in  that  brown  paper  parcel  ?  " 

Willy  laughed.  "A  leg  of  mutton;  I  have  just  been 
to  the  stores." 

"  You  mean  to  say  you  buy  legs  of  mutton  at  the  stores, 
and  carry  them  home?  Supposing  you  met  some  one, 
if  we  were  to " 

"  Not  very  likely,  a  foggy  night  like  this.  I  have  a 
small  house  in  Notting  Hill.  I  take  the  'bus  at  the 
Circus.  I  shall  be  very  glad  if  you  will  come  with  me; 
so  will  the  missis." 

"  I  forgot  to  ask  about  her,  how  is  she  ?  " 

"  Very  well.  Come  and  see  for  yourself.  Come  and 
dine  with  us  to-morrow.  I  can't  give  you  one  of  your 
restaurant  dinners,  but  if  leg  of  mutton  will  suit,  all  I 
can  say  is  that  I  shall  be  very  happy." 

"  I'll  come  whenever  you  like." 

"  Can  you  come  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Yes.     We  might  go  to  the  theatre  afterwards." 

"  We  might.  Be  at  my  place  at  half-past  six,  that 
will  give  us  plenty  of  time." 

"  What  a  queer  fish  he  is,"  thought  Frank,  as  he 
walked  down  Regent  Street,  looking  at  the  women. 
"  Can't  come  and  dine  with  me  because  he  has  two  or 
three  cheques  to  write,  must  have  all  his  books  out  to 
make  entries — what  a  clerk  for  the  Government — an 
ideal  clerk !     What  a  genius  for  red  tape !  " 

Willy  was  standing  on  the  steps  of  the  little  house, 
and  he  commented  on  his  friend's  extravagances  as  he 
welcomed  him. 

"  You  might  have  come  here  for  ninepence,  third  class. 
You  paid  that  cabman  three  shillings,  and  you  took,  I 


128 

don't  mind  betting,  half  an  hour  longer.  Now,  don't 
make  a  mess,  do  wipe  your  feet;  we  don't  keep  a  servant, 
and  it  gives  the  missis  a  lot  of  trouble  cleaning  up." 

Not  a  book  nor  a  picture  nor  a  single  flower,  and 
every  worn  carpet  suggested  the  bare  necessaries  of  life. 
There  was  the  drawing-room,  kept  for  show,  never  en- 
tered, barren  and  blank;  there  was  the  room — a  little 
more  alive — where  Willy  smoked  his  pipe  and  kept  his 
accounts,  but  there  the  crumbs,  three  or  four,  seemed  to 
speak  of  the  dry,  bread-like  days  that  wore  themselves 
away;  life  there  was  too  obviously  dry  and  bare,  joyless 
and  mean. 

Had  Frank's  mind  been  philosophic  and  deep-seeing, 
he  would  have  mused  on  the  admirable  patience  of  the 
woman  who  lived  here,  seeing  no  one,  making  entire 
sacrifice  of  her  life;  he  would  have  contrasted  the  hum- 
bleness, nay,  the  meanness,  of  this  unknown  house  with 
the  reception  rooms  of  the  Manor  House ;  one  life  wasting 
in  darkness  and  poverty,  another  burning  out  in  light 
and  riches;  timeworn  truths  float  on  the  surface  of  this 
little  pool  of  life,  and  so  modernised  are  they  that  they 
appear  for  a  moment  "  new  and  original."  But  further 
than  a  regret  that  there  were  no  flowers  in  the  window, 
and  a  sense  of  the  horrible  when  his  eyes  fell  on  a  piece  of 
Swiss  scenery,  his  thoughts  did  not  wander;  they  soon 
were  fixed  and  absorbed  in  the  consideration  of  the  hap- 
piness that  Willy  had  attained  by  "  doing  the  right  thing 
by  the  woman."  He  was  hers,  she  was  his.  Dreams 
of  things  marital,  the  endearments  of  husband  and  wife, 
are  the  essence  of  the  being  of  some  men  and  women, 
and  are  to  them  a  perennial  delight.  Frank  was  such 
a  one. 

He  had  brought  Cissy  a  doll,  and  the  child  came  and 
sat  on  his  knees,  and  put  her  arms  round  his  neck.  He 
kissed  the  long  face,  hollow-eyed,  and  stroked  the  beau- 
tiful gold  ringlets  that  cloaked  the  shoulders. 


124 

They  went  to  the  theatre  in  a  'bus.  Frank  carried 
Cissy,  and  he  called  indignantly  to  the  crowd  not  to 
press  him,  "  Did  they  not  see  that  he  was  carrying  a 
child?  "  He  did  not  think  that  his  friends  might  recog- 
nise him,  nor  would  he  have  felt  any  shame  had  he  caught 
sight  of  some  face  in  the  stalls  he  knew.  He  would  not 
have  put  Cissy  aside;  nor  would  he  have  pretended  that 
he  was  not  with  the  pale,  worn,  shabbily-dressed  woman 
by  his  side.  He  was  wholly  filled  with  his  friends,  their 
interests  and  concerns;  so  complete  was  the  investment 
of  himself  that  Lizzie  Baker  did  not  snatch  a  fugitive 
thought  from  them;  and  it  was  not  until  he  sat  smoking 
with  Willy  in  the  back  parlour  that  he  said: 

"  I  wonder  what  has  become  of  her  ?  She  was  a  nice 
girl." 

"  You  mean  Lizzie  Baker  ?  You  lost  sight  of  her  all 
of  a  sudden,  didn't  you?  Do  you  think  she  went  off  to 
live  with  some  one?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  she  was  a  girl  who  would  do  that. 
By  Jove,  she  was  a  pretty  girl!  Once  I  took  her  up 
the  river,  up  to  Reading.  We  had  such  a  jolly  day  in 
the  woods  and  on  the  water — amid  the  water-lilies  and 
bulrushes,  or  the  shade  of  the  cedars.  I  wonder  you 
never  go  up  the  river." 

"  I  have  no  time.  Besides,  I  hate  the  water.  I  never 
go  on  the  water  if  I  can  help  it — I  am  too  nervous." 

"How  odd!     Oh,  we  had  a  jolly  day!" 

"  But  I  never  understood  how  it  was  you  lost  sight 
of  her.  You  said  in  your  letter  that  she  had  left  the 
bar;  but  she  must  have  gone  somewhere.  I  am  sure 
you  didn't  make  sufficient  enquiries.  You  are  too 
impatient." 

"  I  did  all  I  could.  One  girl  told  me  that  a  lot  of 
them — Lizzie  among  the  number — had  suddenly  been 
transferred  to  Liverpool  Street.  That  was  true,  for  I 
saw    at    Liverpool    Street    several    girls    I    had    known 


126 

previously  at  the  '  Gaiety.*  Those  poor  bar  girls,  how 
pitiful  they  look!  all  over  London  they  stand  behind 
their  bars !  Breathing  for  hours  tobacco  smoke,  fumes 
of  whisky  and  beer,  listening  to  abominable  jokes,  the 
subjects  of  hideous  flirtations;  and  then  the  little  comedy, 
the  effort  to  appear  as  virtuous  young  ladies — '  young 
ladies  of  the  bar.'  It  is  very  pitiful.  In  such  circum- 
stances how  do  you  expect  a  girl  to  keep  straight?  I 
do  not  think  it  is  the  men  who  do  the  harm.  There  are, 
of  course,  a  few  blackguards  who  crack  fllthy  jokes  over 
the  counter,  but  if  a  girl  likes  she  needn't  listen — a  girl 
can  always  keep  a  man  in  his  place.  Then  if  a  man 
flirts  with  a  girl  he  always  loves  her,  likes  her,  if  you 
think  '  like  '  a  better  word ;  but  you  must  admit  that  in 
the  most  beery  flirtation  there  must  be  a  certain  amount 
of  liking.  There  is,  therefore,  something  to  save  a  girl. 
I  feel  sure  that  it  is  girls,  not  men,  who  lead  innocent 
girls  astray.  Those  poor  bar  girls  are  quite  unpro- 
tected; they  have  a  sitting-room  into  which  they  may 
not  bring  a  friend — a  man,  I  mean.  In  the  bedrooms 
there  is  always  a  lot  of  illicit  talking  and  drinking  going 
on.  A  girl  who  has  gone  wrong  herself  is  never  content 
until  she  has  persuaded  another  girl  to  go  wrong;  a  girl 
is  so  mean!  I  feel  very  much  on  this  subject.  I  am 
thinking  of  writing  a  book  on  the  subject.  Did  I  ever 
tell  you  about  the  novel  I  intended  to  write?  " 

"  You  told  me  once  in  Brighton  about  a  novel  you 
intended  to  write.  I  forget  what  it  was  about,  but  you 
said  you  were  going  to  call  it  '  Her  Saviour.'  " 

"  Oh,  that  is  another  book.  I  was  thinking  of  writing 
the  story  of  a  woman  who  is  led  into  vice.  They  get 
her  to  throw  over  the  man  who  loves  her;  he  follows  her, 
never  loses  sight  of  her  until  at  last,  determined  to  save 
her,  and  although  he  knows  that  he  is  wrecking  his  own 
life,  he  marries  her.     What  do  you  think?  " 

Being  pressed  for  an  answer,  Willy  stroked  his  mous- 


126 

tache  with  great  gravity.  "  I  really  can't  say,  my  dear 
fellow;  you  know  I  never  like  giving  opinions  on  ques- 
tions I  do  not  understand." 

The  conversation  came  to  a  pause,  and  Willy  began  to 
whistle. 

"  Just  a  little  flat — quarter  of  a  note  wrong  there  and 
there!" 

"  Do  you  whistle  it  ?  Oh,  yes,  that's  it !  I  can  hear 
the  difference!  I  wish  you  had  your  violin,  I  should 
like  to  hear  you  play  it." 

"  What,  with  the  missis  overhead  ?  " 

"  She  doesn't  know  anything  about  it.  How  prettily 
she  used  to  sing  it;  a  pretty  tune,  isn't  it?  Good  old 
days  they  were!  Do  you  remember  when  you  used  to 
come  to  the  Princess's  with  me?  Didn't  she  look 
pretty?  " 

"  You  never  told  me  why  you  didn't  marry  her ;  I 
never  heard  the  end  of  that  story." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  tell.  It's  all  over  now.  Do  you 
remember  how  I  used  to  dress  myself  up  to  go  to  the 
theatre?  We  used  to  go  to  supper  at  Scott's  afterwards. 
I  did  not  mind  what  I  ate  in  those  days." 

"  You  hardly  ever  go  to  the  theatre  now,  do  you?  " 

"  Hardly  ever.  I  shouldn't  have  gone  to-night  if  it 
had  not  been  for  you.  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  I 
don't  seem  to  enjoy  myself  as  I  used  to." 

The  men  ceased  talking.  Presently  Frank  broke  the 
silence. 

"  I  hope  you  are  getting  on  all  right  on  the  Stock 
Exchange.     You  haven't  mentioned  the  subject." 

"  I  don't  know  that  there  is  much  to  say.  Times  are 
very  bad  just  now.  I  don't  think  any  one  is  doing  much 
good." 

"  But  you  are  with  a  very  good  firm.  Nothing  is 
going  wrong,  I  hope." 

"  I  don't  think  any  one  is  making  money.     We  have 


127 

all  been  hard  hit  lately — war  scares.  But  I  daresay  it 
will  all  come  right." 

"  I  never  understood  what  you  ever  wanted  to  go  into 
the  business  for.  What  do  you,  with  your  handsome 
place  at  Southwick,  and  your  father  with  his  thousands 
and  thousands,  want  to  turn  yourself  into  a  city  clerk 
for.?" 

"  You  see,  you  don't  care  about  making  money ;  I  do — 
it  was  bred  in  me.  Besides,  I  am  an  unselfish  fellow. 
I  never  think  of  myself;  I  like  to  think  of  others.  If  I 
were  to  make  a  good  thing  out  of  this,  I  should  be  able 
to  leave  the  missis  independent."  Then,  after  a  slight 
pause,  Willy  said :  "  But,  by  the  way,  I  was  forgetting. 
I  got  a  letter  this  morning  saying  that  if  I  met  you  in 
London  I  was  to  tell  you  that  you  were  to  come  to  South- 
wick  for  a  ball." 

"What  ball?" 

"  A  subscription  ball  at  Henfield — a  county  ball.  Will 
you  come.?  " 

"  Yes,  I  don't  mind.  It  should  be  rather  fun.  Are 
you  going?  " 

"  Yes,  I  must  go,  worse  luck,  to  chaperon  my  sisters." 

"  How  do  you  go?  Will  the  governor  let  you  have  the 
horses  ?  " 

"  Not  he !  We  generally  have  a  large  'bus.  I  am  go- 
ing down  to-morrow  by  the  twelve  o'clock  train.  Will 
that  be  too  early  for  you?  " 

"  Not  if  I  go  home  now  and  pack  up." 

"  You  won't  like  that.  You  had  better  sleep  here  and 
get  up  early  in  the  morning;  your  room  is  all  ready." 

"  I  couldn't  manage  it.  I  never  could  get  back  to 
the  Temple,  pack  up,  and  meet  you  at  twelve  at  London 
Bridge." 

"It  will  be  rather  a  cold  walk  for  you;  you  are  too 
late  for  the  train,  and  the  last  'bus,  I  am  afraid^  has 
gone." 


128 

"  I  shall  have  a  hansom.  The  only  thing  that  worries 
me  is  not  being  able  to  say  good-bye  to  the  missis." 

"  She's  fast  asleep.  She  won't  mind — I'll  make  that 
all  right." 

"  Then,  at  twelve  o'clock  at  London  Bridge !  " 


CHAP.  VIII. 

SALLY  rushed  down  to  meet  him,  and  she  took  him  off 
for  a  walk  in  the  garden. 

"  What  a  time  it  is  since  we  have  seen  you.  What 
have  you  been  doing — amusing  yourself  a  great  deal,  I 
suppose?  " 

"  I  have  been  the  whole  time  in  Paris.  I  have  been 
studying  very  hard.  I  only  returned  home  about  two 
months  ago." 

"  I  don't  believe  about  the  studying." 

"  I  have  been  working  at  my  painting.  I  worked 
morning  and  afternoon  in  the  studio  from  the  nude.  Last 
summer  I  had  a  delightful  time.  I  took  a  little  place 
on  the  Seine — a  little  house  near  Bas  Meudon.  I  had 
a  garden;  I  used  to  breakfast  every  morning  in  the  gar- 
den— fresh  eggs,  new  bread,  an  omelette,  such  as  only  a 
Frenchwoman  can  make,  a  cutlet,  or  a  piece  of  chicken. 
The  wine,  too,  so  fresh  and  generous.  I  don't  know  how 
it  is,  but  Burgundy  here  is  not  the  same  as  Burgundy 
on  the  banks  of  the  Seine.  I  worked  all  day  in  my  gar- 
den, or  down  by  the  river.  I  was  painting  a  large  picture. 
I  haven't  finished  it  yet.  I  must  go  back  there  in  the 
summer  to  finish  it." 

"  "Why  can't  you  finish  it  here  ?  Haven't  you  got  it 
here?" 

"  Yes,  but  the  Seine  is  not  here." 

"  Wouldn't  the  Adour  do  ?     The  river  at  Shoreham .''  " 

"  No;  but  the  Thames  might.     My  picture  is  really 


129 

more  English  than  French.  There  were  a  lot  of  willow 
trees  there,  and  my  picture  represents  a  girl  lying  in  a 
hammock,  foot  hanging  over,  showing  such  a  pretty  piece 
of  black  stocking.  There  are  two  men  there,  they  are 
both  swinging  the  hammock,  but  while  one  is  looking  at 
her  ankle  the  other  only  sees  her  face." 

Sally  laughed  coarsely  and  evasively. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at.^"  he  asked,  feeling  a  little 
nettled. 

"  Don't  you  think  people  will  think  it  rather  im- 
proper .''  " 

"  Not  at  all.  Why  should  they  ?  The  idea  I  wish  to 
convey  is  that  one  man  loves  her  truly  for  herself  alone, 
the  other  only  loves  her  because  she  is  a  pretty  girl.  I 
have  composed  some  triolets  for  the  picture,  which  will 
be  printed  in  the  catalogue — 

"  In  a  hammock  I  swing, 

My  feet  hanging  over; 
'Neath  Love's  bright  wing, 
In  a  hammock  I  swing, 
Loves   comes   and   they   bring 

A  truth  to  discover. 
In  a  hammock  I  swing. 

My  feet  hanging  over. 

"  That  is  the  first  stanza.  There  are  six,  and  they  tell 
the  story  of  the  picture.  I  will  copy  them  into  your 
album,  if  you  like." 

"  Will  you  ?  That  will  be  so  nice,  if  you  will.  The 
only  thing  is,  I  haven't  an  album." 

"Haven't  you?  I'll  get  you  one.  I'll  send  you  one 
from  London." 

Sally  asked  him  to  explain  the  triolets,  and  very  loy- 
ally she  strove  to  understand. 

"  Ah,  I  see  a  thing  when  I  am  told,  but  I  never  can 
understand  poetry  or  pictures  until  they  are  explained 
to  me." 

Mollified,  Frank  thought   of  going  upstairs  to   fetch 


130 

the  copy  book  in  which  he  wrote  such  things,  but  speak- 
ing out  of  an  unperceived  association  of  ideas,  he  said: 
"  What  a  clever  girl  your  sister  is.  I  had  once  a  long 
talk  with  her  about  pictures  and  poetry,  and  I  was  sur- 
prised to  find  how  well  she  talked.  She  understands 
everything." 

"  Maggie  is  a  clever  girl ;  I  know  she  is  far  cleverer 
than  I  am;  but  if  you  knew  her  as  well  as  I  do,  you 
would  find  she  did  not  understand  all  you  think  she 
understands." 

"  How  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Maggie's  cleverness  lies  in  being  able  to  pretend  she 
understands  what  she  knows  nothing  about;  I  have  often 
caught  her  out." 

"  Really ;  but  how  do  you  get  on  together  now }  " 
"  Pretty  well !  I  don't  think  there  is  much  love  lost 
on  either  side.  I  don't  know  why — I  never  could  un- 
derstand Maggie.  You  have  no  idea  of  the  reports  she 
spreads  about  me  all  over  the  place — the  stories  she  tells 
the  Grahams,  the  Prestons,  the  Wells.  She  told  Mrs. 
Wells  that  I  fell  in  love  with  every  young  man  that  came 
to  Southwick.  She  said  awful  things  about  me.  As  for 
that  story  about  telling  cook  to  put  father's  dinner  back, 
I  don't  think  I  ever  shall  hear  the  last  of  it.  What  made 
father  so  angry  was  because  he  thought  it  was  to  talk 
to  Jimmy  in  the  slonk." 

"  You  told  me  the  last  time  I  was  here  that  you  wanted 
to  finish  a  conversation  with  him  in  the  slonk." 

"  I  may  have  told  you  that  it  was  to  speak  to  him 
about  his  sister  Fanny,"  Sally  replied  evasively.  "  I 
would  not  care  if  I  never  saw  him  again;  but  I  couldn't 
get  on  if  I  weren't  allowed  to  see  Fanny.  Father  wanted 
me  to  promise  never  to  enter  the  house  again ! " 
"  But  you  have  flirted  with  him.''  " 
"  I  don't  know  that  I  have ;  certainly  not  more  than 
Maggie.     Last  summer  she  was  hanging  round  his  neck 


131 

every   evening   under    the    sycamores.      I    caught    them 
twice." 

"  I  don't  see  any  harm  in  going  under  the  sycamores. 
I  daresay  Maggie  has  allowed  him  to  kiss  her;  so  have 
you ! " 

"  That  I  assure  you  I  haven't." 

"  You  mean  to  say  a  man  never  kissed  you  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  say  that.  I  haven't  kissed  any  one  for 
years." 

"Who  did  kiss  you?" 

"  You  don't  know  him.  I  was  only  eighteen.  He  was 
a  married  man;  it  was  very  wrong  of  me." 

"  I  wish  I  had  been  he." 

"  Do  you  ?     I  hate  him ;  he  was  a  beast  for  doing  it." 

Sally  often  indulged  in  these  half  confessions;  one  of 
her  aunts  used  to  call  them  her  "  side  lights."  By  their 
aid  she  succeeded  in  interesting  Frank.  "  How  candid 
she  is  to  tell  me — to  confide  in  me !  "  Sally  was  hand- 
some now;  the  evening  suited  her  dark  skin  and  coal 
black  eyes,  and  her  strong  figure  was  rich  and  not  un- 
graceful in  a  dress  of  ruby  velvet.  Should  he  kiss  her? 
What  would  she  say?     He  threw  his  arm  about  her. 

"  I  am  surprised.     Certainly  not !  " 

"  I  don't  see  any  harm."  Then,  with  a  sensation  of 
saying  something  foolish,  he  said :  "  You  told  me  you 
kissed  a  married  man." 

"  That  was  ages  ago — I  was  very  silly.  I  shouldn't 
think  of  doing  so  now." 

In  the  silence  which  followed  Frank  wondered  why 
he  had  tried  to  kiss  her.  Decidedly  he  liked  the  other 
better. 

Now  every  evening  Maggie  went  to  the  writing-table, 
and  all  knew  what  it  meant.  Mr.  Brookes  occasionally 
lamented  in  a  minor  key,  but  without  having  recourse  to 
his  handkerchief.  Willy  said  nothing;  his  losses  on  the 
Stock  Exchange  had  been  heavy;  and  owing  to  a  con- 


132 

•versation  Frank  had  drawn  him  into  during  dinner  the 
other  day,  his  digestion,  he  feared,  was  not  quite  up  to 
the  mark.  So  on  the  night  of  the  ball  he  only  answered 
with  an  occasional  monosyllable  the  splendid  young  man 
of  the  embroidered  waistcoats  who  related  his  pleasures 
in  a  deep  bass;  nor  did  he  pretend  to  take  any  interest 
in  the  crude  militia  officer  who  sometimes  broke  the 
silence  by  a  declaration  that  he  did  not  care  for  politics 
or  poetry,  that  he  liked  history  better.  The  young  ladies 
listened  devoutly  to  all  that  the  young  men  said;  Mr. 
Brookes  carved  valiantly  at  the  head  of  the  table  and 
appeared  resigned.  Bouquets  were  fixed  in  buttonholes 
in  the  billiard-room  and  the  'bus  was  announced.  A  greasy 
oil-lamp  hung  from  the  roof.  Sometimes  Sally  rubbed 
the  windows  and  said  she  could  tell  by  the  bushes  where 
they  were,  and  the  embroidered  waistcoat  continued  to 
drone  out  the  measure  of  his  amusements.  He  would 
have  to  run  up  to  London,  then  he  must  have  a  shy  at 
trente  et  quarante  at  Monte  Carlo,  then  he  must  get  back 
for  the  spring  meeting  at  Newmarket.  Frank  asked  him 
if  he  didn't  think  he  could  manage  to  amuse  himself  with- 
out talking  it  all  out  beforehand.  But  undaunted  and 
imchecked  he  wandered  from  Homburg  to  Paris,  and 
from  Paris  to  Ross-shire,  until  the  'bus  drew  up  among 
a  small  crowd  of  people. 

The  ball  was  a  failure.  When  they  entered  the  rooms 
there  were  scarcely  twenty  people  present.  It  was  very 
cold,  and  the  men  said:  "How  can  the  women  bear  it 
with  their  naked  shoulders }  " 

"  We  shall  never  get  near  this  fire,"  said  Sally,  look- 
ing in  dismay  on  the  circle  of  damsels  who  stood  warming 
themselves,  their  dresses  relieved  upon  the  masses  of 
laurel  with  which  the  room  was  decorated ;  "  there  is  a 
beautiful  fire  in  one  of  those  little  rooms  at  the  end." 

"  Very  well,  let  us  come  and  sit  there ;  or  shall  we 
dance  this  waltz  first?  " 


133 

"  Let's  dance  it." 

They  danced,  and  Frank  shuddered  in  his  evening 
clothes  as  he  danced. 

"  Did  you  notice,"  said  Sally,  as  they  hurried  to  the 
retiring  room,  "  how  upset  father  seemed  at  dinner  ?  I 
thought  he  was  going  to  cry,  but  he  bore  up  to  the  end 
better  than  I  expected." 

"  So  he  did,  but  I  don't  see  what  there  was  particularly 
to  upset  him  this  time.  Meason  is  away  at  sea,  and  you 
have  promised  not  to  see  him  any  more." 

"  Oh,  I  wasn't  thinking  about  the  Measons — but 
haven't  you  heard?  I  only  heard  it  through  a  friend, 
but  I  know  for  a  fact  that  Willy  has  lost  nearly  all  his 
money  on  the  Stock  Exchange." 

"  You  don't  say  so ;  I  am  so  sorry." 

"  Father  hasn't  heard  it  all  yet ;  if  he  had  he  wouldn't 
have  come  down  to  dinner.  I  don't  fancy  he  knows  more 
than  that  things  have  not  been  going  well,  and  that  Willy 
has  been  a  loser." 

"  But  how  can  he  have  lost.''  I  thought  he  was  junior 
partner  in  an  old  established  business." 

"  So  he  is.  I  can't  tell  you  how  the  mischief  was  done, 
but  I  know  he  has  lost  all  his  money." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  all  his  money  }  " 

"  All  the  money — three  thousand — that  father  let  him 
draw  out  of  the  distillery." 

"  This  is  very  sad." 

"  Yes,  isn't  it .''  And  particularly  for  a  fellow  who  has 
so  few  amusements,  and  only  cares  about  making  money. 
Just  look  at  him  now;  he  wanders  about  speaking  to  no 
one.     Come,  let's  dance  this  dance — are  you  engaged.''" 

"No!" 

This  news  about  Willy  fixed  the  Harfield  ball  in 
Frank's  thoughts,  and  he  remembered  the  pretty  girl  in 
white  of  whom  he  could  make  nothing,  of  the  raw  just- 
brought-out  girl  who  had  bored  him,  of  the  communicative 


134 

girl  who  had  amused  him  by  her  accounts  of  her  dogs 
and  horses;  he  remembered,  too,  how  he  had  seen  Mag- 
gie disappearing  down  the  ends  of  certain  passages  with 
a  young  man  whose  name  he  did  not  catch,  and  whose 
face  he  had  not  noticed.  He  had  danced  twice  with  her, 
only  twice;  she  was  distracted,  she  did  not  look  at  him, 
her  eyes  wandered  all  over  the  room,  she  answered  his 
questions  indifferently.  Sally,  on  the  contrary,  had  de- 
voted herself  to  him,  and  on  several  occasions  he  thought 
that  her  blunt  straightforward  manner  was  better  than 
the  other's  slyness.  The  'bus  came  with  its  draughts,  its 
sickly  lamp  and  its  doleful  jolting.  Sally  was  too  tired 
to  rub  the  windows  and  declare  how  far  they  were  from 
home,  and  the  dancers  endured  their  discomforts  almost 
in  silence;  even  the  embroidered  waistcoat  occasionally 
ceased  to  talk  about  Homburg;  and  in  all  the  extreme 
bitterness  and  greyness  of  a  March  morning  they  pulled 
up  before  the  door  of  the  Manor  House. 

"  I  beg  of  you  not  to  make  a  noise.  If  you  wake  up 
father  he  will  never  let  us  go  to  a  ball  again.  Is  there 
a  fire  in  the  billiard-room,  Gardner?  " 

"  Yes,  miss,  there's  a  lovely  fire ;  the  decanters  are  on 
the  table  and  the  kettle  is  on  the  hob." 

"  I  think  you  would  all  like  a  glass  of  something  hot," 
said  Maggie. 

"  Rather !  " 

"  But  don't  make  a  noise,  please." 

They  stole  along  the  passages  to  the  billiard-room 
shivering,  their  feet  aching,  feeling  very  uncomfortable 
indeed.  The  waistcoat  was  now  considering  if  it  would 
be  good  form  to  come  forward  in  the  Conservative 
interest  at  the  next  election;  but  every  one  was  too  tired, 
they  could  not  laugh,  and  amid  a  few  general  remarks 
the  young  ladies  drank  their  gin  and  water,  casting 
sheep's  eyes  at  the  young  men,  and  then,  glad  and  yet 
loth  to  part,  all  retired  limping  to  their  rooms. 


185 

Breakfast  was  a  pleasant  meal — full  of  laughter  and 
anecdotes  of  the  ball,  and,  laden  with  Gladstone  bags, 
the  young  men  departed  in  ones  and  twos.  Frank  was 
going  with  Willy  to  London,  and  when  they  disappeared 
among  the  laurels  Sally  and  Maggie  turned  indoors,  con- 
scious of  reaction,  and  wondering  what  they  should  do 
with  the  long  day  that  stretched  before  them.  Maggie 
walked  upstairs;  she  lingered,  undecided,  and  then  went 
down  the  passage  to  Frank's  room.  He  had  forgotten 
a  shirt  stud;  on  the  chest  of  drawers  there  was  a  crum- 
pled white  tie  and  a  soiled  pair  of  white  gloves.  "  How 
careless  he  is !  "  she  thought,  "  I  must  send  him  this," 
and  she  put  the  stud  in  her  pocket.  She  straightened  out 
the  gloves  and  determined  to  send  the  necktie  to  the 
wash.  Next  time  he  came  down  she  would  have  it  to 
give  him,  nice,  clean,  and  white — she  must  see  that  it  was 
beautifully  made  up.  Then  she  found  his  ball  pro- 
gramme. He  had  danced  four  times  with  Sally — only 
twice  with  her — what  a  fool  she  had  been ;  she  had  wasted 
her  whole  evening  with  that  other  fellow.  It  did  make 
her  feel  so  angry.  Then  the  housemaid  entered  and 
turned  the  bed  down. 

"  What  a  lot  of  washing  there  will  be  this  week,  Gard- 
ner." 

"  There  will  indeed,  miss.  Three  pairs  of  sheets,  and 
only  slept  in  once." 

"  Yes,  isn't  it  a  pity  ?  It  seems  absurd  to  send  these 
sheets  to  the  wash,  doesn't  it?  " 

"  It  do,  indeed,  miss." 

"Absurd!"  said  Sally,  who  had  just  come  in.  "I 
want  a  pair  of  fresh  sheets  for  my  bed.     I'll  have  these." 

"  No  you  won't — I  was  going  to  take  them." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  what  right  you  have  to  them 
more  than  I." 

"  You  promised  not  to  interfere  with  me,  and  you  have 


136 

done  nothing  else.  You  did  nothing  at  the  ball  but  ask 
him  for  dances." 

"  That's  a  lie !  I  didn't  ask  him  for  a  dance.  You 
went  off  to  hide;  no  one  saw  anything  of  you  all  the 
evening." 

"  You  mean  to  say  you  didn't  promise  ?  " 

"  I  never  promised  anything;  if  I  did  I  should  keep  my 
promise.  I  am  not  like  you.  I  want  a  pair  of  sheets, 
and  I  mean  to  have  these." 

"  They  are  too  big  for  your  bed." 

Sally  seized  the  sheet  and  strove  to  drag  it  from  Mag- 
gie, who,  although  the  weaker,  held  her  own  bravely  for 
some  time.  Finding  her  strength  failing  her,  she  loosed 
her  hold,  letting  her  sister  fall  against  the  wall,  and  tak- 
ing up  the  pillow  she  launched  it  with  her  full  force.  "  If 
you  want  what  he  slept  in,  you  can  have  it  all." 

"  I'll  give  it  to  you,  my  lady,"  cried  the  bully,  making 
a  rush  round  the  bed,  but  Maggie  fled  through  the  dress- 
ing-room, shutting  the  door  behind  her,  and  locked  herself 
into  her  room. 

CHAP.  IX. 

AS  Willy  would  not  pay  the  extra  fare,  Frank  had  to 
travel  second  class.  He  was  telling  his  friend  of  the 
Stock  Exchange,  and  his  losses — nearly  four  thousand 
pounds.  He  had  suspected  that  the  firm  of  which  he 
was  junior  partner  had  not  played  fair  with  him.  Any- 
how, he  was  going  to  get  out  of  the  business,  having 
something  better  in  view — a  shop  in  Brighton.  Yes,  a 
shop  in  Brighton,  a  greengrocer's  shop.  No  one  had 
any  idea,  until  they  went  into  the  calculation,  of  the 
amount  of  profit  that  was  made  on  vegetables.  Lord 
This  and  Lord  That,  every  one  who  had  a  handsome 
place  with  large  gardens,  counted  on  being  able  to  pay 
his  gardener's  wages  by  the  sale  of  the  surplus  carrots, 


137 

artichokes,  potatoes,  parsley,  onions,  tomatoes,  especially 
tomatoes — every  one  nowadays  ate  tomatoes.  He  had 
it  all  down  in  figures,  and  was  perfectly  astonished  at  the 
sums  of  money  that  could  be  made.  Grapes  had  been 
overdone,  that  was  true;  but  a  profit  could  be  made  out 
of  everything  else.  Flowers,  especially  gardenias,  were 
sold  in  the  London  market  at  two  shillings  apiece.  Now, 
there  was  he  within  five  miles  of  a  large  town  like 
Brighton;  the  rent  of  a  shop  in  the  Western  Road  would 
not  come  to  more  than  seventy  or  eighty  pounds  a  year; 
the  missis  he  would  put  in  as  shopwoman,  and,  there 
was  no  doubt  of  it,  she  would  make  as  good  a  shopwoman 
as  you  could  find,  after  a  little  practice;  the  child  could 
run  on  errands,  so  it  should  be  all  profit.  "  I  shall  have 
none  of  the  expenses  that  other  people  have  to  contend 
with.  In  the  garden  at  the  Manor  House  about  three 
times  as  much  stuff  is  grown  as  required.  I  shall  buy  all 
the  fruit,  vegetables,  and  flowers  from  my  father  at  cost 
price,  or  a  little  over,  and  shall  sell  in  my  shop  at  retail 
price,  that  is,  twenty  or  thirty  per  cent.  more.  There  is, 
therefore,  no  reason  why  the  shop  should  not  bring  in 
from  three  to  four  hundred  a  year.  And — would  you  be- 
lieve it  ? — my  father,  who  will  be  benefited  by  my  scheme, 
if  not  more,  quite  as  much  as  I  shall  be,  is  opposed  to  it; 
he  will  get  a  fair  price  for  a  lot  of  things  for  which  he 
now  gets  nothing.  But  no.  He  cannot,  or  will  not,  see 
it.  I  never  saw  any  one  like  my  father.  He  will  not 
help  himself  and  you  can  do  nothing  to  help  him.  The 
distillery  business  is  going  very  badly.  He  had  a  bad 
year  last  year.  I  know  for  a  fact  that  he  did  not  make 
five  per  cent,  on  his  capital.  Putting  these  things  to- 
gether, I  should  have  thought  that  he  would  have  been 
glad  to  make  a  little  money  to  retrench ;  but  no !  he  pre- 
fers to  go  on  in  the  old  way.  He  made  money  in  the 
old  way,  and  he  doesn't  see  why  he  shouldn't  make  money 
again  in  the  old  way.    Odd  man  my  father  is,  isn't  he?  " 


138 

It  appeared  to  Frank  that  Mr.  Brookes  had  managed 
to  help  himself  very  liberally  indeed  to  all  the  good 
things  in  life;  but  with  his  false,  facile,  Celtic  nature, 
he  had  no  difficulty  in  readjusting  his  ideas  and  adopting 
a  view  of  Mr.  Brookes  more  in  harmony  with  Willy's. 
He  was,  as  usual,  enthusiastic  about  his  friends,  and  was 
effervescing  with  love  and  goodwill.  He  saw  nothing  of 
their  faults — they  were  the  best  and  truest  people  he  had 
ever  known,  and  he  could  not  love  them  too  much.  In- 
deed he  was  angry,  and  regretted  the  limitations  that 
nature  has  set  on  the  human  heart,  and  would  if  he  could 
have  lost  himself  in  one  immense  and  eternal  love  of  the 
Brookeses. 

When  he  bade  Willy  good-bye  at  London  Bridge,  and 
wished  him  well  with  his  shop,  these  sentiments  ceased 
to  be  active  forces  in  him,  and  they  lay  latent  in  his  life 
of  restaurants  and  bar  rooms  until  the  summer  returned, 
and  he  received  an  invitation  from  the  Manor  House  to 
come  down  for  a  garden  party  at  Mrs.  Berkins's.  When 
he  opened  the  letter  he  basked  in  thoughts  of  them — of 
Maggie  and  her  fascinating  subtleties,  of  Sally's  blunt 
speech  and  sturdy  good  looks,  of  Willy,  and  all  the  quiet 
talks  they  would  have  together.  He  counted  the  tunnels, 
and,  striving  to  recall  the  landscape,  guessed  extrava- 
gantly the  number  of  miles  that  separated  him  from  them. 
He  walked  up  the  drive  with  a  beating  heart,  looking  for 
the  girls  between  the  laurel  bushes.  He  found  them,  and 
their  habits  which  endeared  them  to  him,  unchanged;  and 
to  slip  back  into  the  old  ways  without  experiencing  the 
slightest  difficulty  or  jar  was  like  waking  from  a  dream 
and  entering  again  on  a  pleasant  reality.  There  was  the 
excellent  dinner  and  the  usual  complaints  about  the 
Southdown  Road,  the  cigars  in  the  billiard-room,  con- 
versation about  pictures  and  investments,  gin  and  water, 
and  then  a  long  yarn  with  Willy  in  his  bedroom.  Life 
moved  at  the  Manor  House  without  any  spring  creaking. 


139 

without  jolt  or  jar,  and  it  was  this  beautiful  regularity 
that  made  Frank  feel  so  healthily  and  so  unexpectedly 
happy.  He  loved  the  desolation  of  Ireland,  This  was 
the  stronger  sense,  but  there  was  another  sense,  a  half 
stifled  sense,  that  found  an  echo  in  these  southern  downs 
interwoven  with  suburban  life — in  other  words,  a  faint 
resurrection  of  the  original  English  mind  in  him.  He 
enjoyed  and  he  grew  akin  to  this  Saxon  prosperity;  he 
learned  to  recognise  it  as  manifested  in  the  various  pros- 
pects of  the  weald  and  the  wold,  and  he  loved  this  medley 
of  contradictory  aspects — the  spires  of  the  village 
churches,  the  porches  of  the  villas,  the  rich  farmhouses 
and  their  elm  trees,  the  orchards  jammed  between  masses 
of  chalk,  the  shepherds  seen  against  the  sky  of  the 
Downs.  It  is  true  that  he  felt  that  this  country  was  alien 
to  him,  but  he  was  not  individually  conscious  that  his 
love  of  suburban  Sussex  was  a  morbid  affection,  opposed 
to  the  normal  and  indissoluble  bonds  of  inherited  aspira- 
tions and  prejudices,  and  the  forms  and  colours  that  had 
filled  his  eyes  in  childhood.  Consciousness  in  Frank  Es- 
cott  was  always  slow,  and  always  so  governed  and  col- 
oured by  the  sentiment  of  the  moment  that  his  compre- 
hensions of  things  were  always  deformed  or  incomplete. 
In  his  mind  the  phenomenon  of  life  was  ever  in  nebulae, 
and  though  very  often  one  thought  would  define  itself, 
no  group  of  thoughts,  or  part  of  a  group,  ever  became 
clear,  so  there  was  no  abiding  principle,  nothing  that  he 
might  know  and  steer  by.  He  was,  of  course,  aware  that 
the  Brookeses  were  not  equal  to  him  in  rank,  but  he  did 
not  know,  or,  rather,  he  would  not  know,  that  they  were 
vulgar;  nor  did  he  think  that  Mount  Rorke  might  marry 
again,  if  he  were  to  marry  Maggie  or  Sally.  All  that 
was  really  alive  and  distinct  in  him  was  love  of  them; 
and  this  love  thrived  in  a  sensation  of  class  which  he 
would  not  acknowledge,  even  to  himself,  had  any  exist- 
ence.    The  glass-houses,  and  swards,  and  laurels  had  a 


140 

meaning  and  fascination  for  him  that  he  could  not  account 
for  or  describe,  and  he  found  these  feelings,  which  were 
mainly  class  feelings  of  an  unusual  kind,  not  only  in  the 
aspect  of  the  country  but  in  the  accent  and  speech  of  his 
friends,  in  the  expression  of  their  eyes  and  very  hands. 
The  English  servants  pleased  him,  and  he  strove  to  de- 
tect qualities  in  the  carriage  and  horses,  and  he  com- 
pared them  to  their  advantage  with  Mount  Rorke's.  He 
loved  to  wrap  the  rug  about  the  young  ladies'  knees,  and 
they  seemed  to  him  quite  perfect  and  delightful  as  they 
lay  back  in  their  carriage,  driving  beneath  a  sky  full 
of  blue,  and  through  the  changing  views  of  the  Downs, 
all  distinct  with  light  and  shade.  Sally  and  Maggie 
made  much  of  him,  covered  him  up,  and  addressed  to 
him  pleasant  speeches.  His  eyes  and  ears  were  open 
and  eager  for  new  impressions,  and  his  heart  panted  with 
readiness  to  admire  and  praise  all  he  saw.  He  was  ready 
to  think  that  he  had  never  seen  anything  so  lovely  as 
the  laurels  and  the  numerous  glass-houses ;  and  he  won- 
dered why  he  had  ever  thought  so  little  of  Berkins,  and 
he  listened  with  interest  to  that  gentleman's  explanation 
of  the  superiority  of  his  possessions  over  everybody  else's 
possessions.  He  even  allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded 
that  there  was  no  pheasant  shooting  in  the  kingdom — 
for  its  size — equal  to  that  in  the  little  wood.  Sally, 
who  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  her  dislike  of  her  brother- 
in-law,  whispered:  "  That's  the  way  to  bring  them  down," 
and  Frank  was  obliged  to  laugh.  Then  she  and  Maggie 
disappeared  as  if  the  earth  had  swallowed  them  for  sev- 
eral hours.  The  Grenadier  Guards  played  on  the  lawn, 
and  Frank  was  introduced  to  ladies  of  all  ages  and  sizes; 
and  as  these  bored  him,  he  began  to  see  that  the  place 
was  vulgar  and  the  people  shoddy,  and  he  wondered 
what  Mount  Rorke  would  say  if  he  were  to  come  sud- 
denly across  him.  Grace  was  the  subject  of  mych  con- 
cern, and  obviously  enceinte,  she  passed  through  the  dif- 


141 

ferent  groups.  She  had  introduced  Frank  as  Lord 
Mount  Rorke's  son,  then  as  his  nephew,  then  as  his  heir, 
and,  fearing  she  might  succumb  to  the  temptation  of  in- 
troducing him  as  Mount  Rorke  himself,  Frank  escaped 
from  her,  and  joined  a  party  that  Berkins  was  personally 
conducting  through  the  grounds. 

The  stables  had  been  built  by  So-and-So  on  the  most 
approved  principles.  There  were  no  stables  like  them  in 
Sussex — the  fittings  of  the  harness-room  alone  had  cost 
him  three  hundred.  The  horses  he  had  bought  at  the 
Duke's  sale,  the  Duke  would  not  have  thought  of  part- 
ing with  them  had  he  known  how  they  would  turn  out. 
He  had  driven  them  along  the  Brighton  road  at  the  rate 
of  fifteen  miles  an  hour;  he  would  back  them  to  do  fif- 
teen miles  •fin  the  hour.  There  was  not  a  pair  of  horses 
in  England  equal  to  them.  That  was  Mrs.  Berkins's 
riding  horse — was  it  possible  to  imagine  a  more  perfect 
cob.''  He  could  get  a  hundred  for  him  any  day,  he  did 
not  know  of  anything  like  him.  "  Did  any  of  you  gentle- 
men ever  see  anything  like  him?  "  They  went  to  the 
kennels.  A  brace  of  Irish  setters  were  declared  to  be  the 
finest  dogs  that  Ireland  haa  ever  produced,  they  had 
taken  two  prizes,  one  in  Dublin  and  another  in  Brighton 
— and  the  little  fox  terrier  was  the  gamest  dog  in  Sus- 
sex. She  would  go  into  any  hole  after  a  fox,  and  never 
leave  him  till  she  brought  him  out.  You  couldn't  find 
her  equal.  Then  the  glass-houses  were  perfect.  They 
contained  all  the  latest  improvements,  and  all  these  were 
fully  explained.  "  Berkins  is  excelling  himself  to-day," 
thought  Frank. 

Presently  they  came  upon  a  basket  of  peaches. 

"  These  peaches  were,  of  course,  grown  under  glass, 
but  I  think  I  am  right  in  slaying,  Jackson,  that  they  were 
produced  without  artificial  heat." 

"  Yes,  sir,  quite  right,  sir.  It  couldn't  be  done  no- 
where else,  sir,  but  all  the  sun  in  Sussex  seems  to  come 


142 

down  here — a  regular  little  sun  trap,  I  think  that's  what 
you  called  it  the  other  day,  sir,  when  you  were  speaking 
to  me  about  them  there  peaches." 

"  Yes,  I  did.  If  you  move  nearer  the  sea  you  get  fogs 
and  cold  winds,  further  inland  you  lose  the  sun,  but 
just  here  the  climate  is  equal  to  the  south  of  Europe ! 
I  ask  you  to  look  at  these  peaches,  it  seems  impossible — 
does  it  not.'' — to  have  peaches  like  these  at  the  end  of 
May,  and  without  any  heat,  merely  glass." 

"  It  seems  to  me  quite  impossible,"  declared  a  little  fat 
man  with  flaxen  hair.  "  I  am  devoted  to  peach-growing, 
and  I  confess  I  am  quite  at  a  loss.  Gardener,  did  you 
say  that  those  peaches  were  grown  entirely  without  ar- 
tificial heat.^  " 

The  gardener  pretended  not  to  hear,  and  tried  to  slip 
away,  but  the  little  man,  who  had  been  taken  on  his 
hobby,  was  not  to  be  baulked,  and  he  pursued  the 
wretched  horticulturist, 

"  You  mean  to  say  that  these  peaches  ripened  without 
any  artificial  heat,  any.^  " 

"  You  have  no  idea  what  a  sun  we  get  here,  sir.  I 
have  never  seen  anything  like  it.     In  my  last  situation, 

when  I  was  living  with  Lord  ,  we  couldn't  get  our 

fruit  forward,  use  whatever  heat  he  might,  and  Houghton 
is  not  more  than  fifty  miles  from  here — the  difference  of 
climate  is  positively  wonderful." 

Jackson  had  reckoned  that  Mr.  Berkins  would  move 
on,  and  that  the  inquisitive  little  man  would  find  himself 
obliged  to  follow,  but  chance  was  against  him,  for  Ber- 
kins, with  his  guests  around  him,  stood  listening  to  the 
discussion. 

"  You  mean  to  say  that  these  peaches  were  grown 
without  heat.  I  wouldn't  mind  giving  you  five-and- 
twenty  pounds  for  the  recipe  for  doing  it." 

"  You  must  take  a  small  place  down  here,  sir,  and  then 
you  will  be  able  to  do  it." 


143 

This  raised  a  laugh,  but  the  little  man  was  not  to  be 
beaten,  and  he  said :  "  I  should  like  to  see  some  of  those 
peaches  of  yours  on  the  trees.  You  haven't  plucked 
them  all;  let  me  see  them." 

"  Yes,  Jackson,  show  us  the  trees.  Some  will  not  be- 
lieve without  seeing;  let  us  see  the  peaches  on  the  trees." 

Jackson  appeared  to  be  a  little  disconcerted;  he  mur- 
mured excuses,  and  strove  to  escape.  Driven  to  bay  he 
brought  them  into  a  glass-house  where  there  were  hot 
water-pipes,  and  when  his  tormentor  pointed  trium- 
phantly to  the  pipes  he  attempted  a  faint  explanation — 
he  had  meant  to  say  that  heat  had  only  been  used  within 
the  last  three  weeks. 

"  So  you  see,  Berkins,"  exclaimed  little  flaxen-haired 
fatty,  "  your  south  of  Europe  is  no  better  than  my  south 
of  Europe,  or  anybody  else's  south  of  Europe." 

"  Jackson,  you  have  told  me  many  deliberate  false- 
hoods about  these  peaches.  I  keep  no  one  in  my  employ- 
ment whose  word  cannot  be  depended  upon.  You  take 
your  warning." 

"  Falsehoods !  What  do  you  want  a  man  to  do,  if  you 
will  have  everything  better  than  anybody  else's  ?  " 

Berkins  turned  suddenly  on  his  heel,  he  drew  himself 
up  to  his  full  height,  and  stood  speechless  with  indigna- 
tion. Never,  not  even  on  the  most  important  Board 
meetings,  did  his  friends  wait  to  hear  him  speak  with 
more  anxiety;  but  at  that  moment  a  crash  of  flower  pots 
was  heard,  and  Sally  and  a  young  man  were  discovered 
hiding  in  the  potting  shed ;  and  to  make  matters  worse,  in 
the  very  next  house  they  visited,  they  suddenly  came  upon 
Maggie  sitting  with  another  young  man  in  strangely 
compromising  circumstances.  Explanations  were  at- 
tempted, and  some  stupid  remarks  were  made.  Berkins 
was  seriously  annoyed,  and  he  took  the  first  opportunity 
of  taking  Mr.  Brookes's  arm  and  leading  him  away  to  a 
quiet  path.    Frank  saw  the  men  pass  through  the  laurels^ 


144 

and  ten  minutes  after  he  saw  them  return.  Evidently 
Berkins  had  read  Mr.  Brookes  an  exhaustive  lecture  on 
the  conduct  of  his  daughters. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Brookes,  now,  Mr.  Brookes,  I  must  beg  of 
you — calm  yourself.  What  would  my  guests  think  if  they 
found  you  in  tears?  What  would  they  think  I  had  been 
saying  to  reduce  you  to  such  a  condition.''  It  is  very 
unfortunate  that  Sally  and  Maggie  should  act  as  they 
do,  particularly  at  my  place;  but  really  you  must  not 
give  way." 

"  Since  the  death  of  their  poor  mother  I  am  all  alone. 
My  position  is  a  very  trying  one."  Then,  with  a  sud- 
den burst  of  laughter,  "  However,  I  suppose  it  will  be 
all  the  same  a  hundred  years  hence !  " 


CHAP.  X. 

THE  girls  walked  to  the  station  with  Escott.  A  fleecy 
evening,  with  the  clouds  growing  pale  towards  the  sea, 
the  sun  like  fire  in  the  elms,  and  the  woods  showing  upon 
a  purple  tinge. 

"  How  delightful !  "  exclaimed  Frank.  "  How  charm- 
ing this  is — this  old  English  green,  the  horse  pond  at  one 
end,  the  various  houses,  the  inn,  the  grocery  business, 
the  linen  drying  in  that  yard,  the  smith,  and  the  wheel- 
wright. I  don't  like  that  modern  Queen  Anne  school- 
house,  and  I  wish  I  could  remove  the  dead  level  of  the 
embankment  and  see  the  sea.  The  green  is  better  from 
this  side  with  the  view  of  the  Downs — those  lines  wav- 
ing against  the  sky,  where  the  gorse  grows  and  the  sheep 
feed,  and  inclining  to  the  road  all  the  fields  pale  green 
and  deep  green.  But  what  game  are  those  men  playing 
— what  game  do  you  call  that  ?  " 

"  Bat  and  trap." 

"  I  have  passed  the  green  twenty  times  before,  and  I 


145 

never  really  saw  it  till  now.  It  is  charming — so  thor- 
oughly English.  I  should  like  to  live  here  for  a  month 
— for  two  months.  How  nice  it  would  be  to  breakfast  in 
the  morning  looking  out  on  the  green,  to  see  the  cocks 
and  hens  and  all  the  children  and  all  this  English  life! 
How  dijfferent  from  Pump  Court !  I  am  sick  of  Pump 
Court — dirt  and  smoke,  a  horrid  servant,  stale  eggs.  I 
suppose  you  can  always  get  fresh  eggs  and  new  bread 
here.'*  I  would  give  anything  to  spend  a  month  on  the 
green." 

"  Well,  you  can !  "  cried  Sally.  "  I  wish  you  would, 
and  you  could  come  and  play  tennis  with  us  every  after- 
noon. Mrs.  Heald  has  some  rooms  to  let;  why  it  was 
only  last  week  I  heard  that  she  hadn't  let  her  rooms  this 
season,  and  was  most  anxious  to  do  so." 

"  There's  no  use  my  coming  here  until  I  begin  to  write 
my  novel.  I  am  painting  now,  and  I  must  see  if  I  can 
get  my  picture  finished  for  one  of  the  autumn  exhibi- 
tions." 

"  I  knew  you  would  find  some  excuse." 

"  No,  I  assure  you,  but  I  can't  do  anything  without  a 
studio,  and  I'm  not  likely  to  find  a  studio  on  Southwick 
Green." 

"  I  don't  suppose  Mrs.  Heald  has  a  room  large  enough 
for  a  studio,"  said  Maggie ;  "  but  I  don't  see  why  you 
shouldn't  find  a  place  where  you  can  paint." 

"  Where }  Not  in  that  eighteenth-century  house  where 
the  two  old  ladies  are  standing !  Supposing  I  were  to  go 
and  ask  them  if  they  would  let  me  have  their  drawing- 
room  to  paint  in!  That  is  the  only  house  on  the  green, 
all  the  rest  are  cottages." 

"  I  suppose  you  are  not  very  particular  where  you 
paint,"  said  Maggie  reflectively.  "  You  don't  mind  ap- 
pearances, I  suppose?  I  wonder  if  you  could  manage  to 
fit  up  a  farm  building." 

"  There  is  the  famous  barn  where  Charles  the  First 


146 

hid  himself,  I  don't  suppose  the  authorities  would  allow 
me  to  turn  that  into  a  studio." 

"  No,  probably  not ;  but  I  think  you  might  find  a  house 
that  would  do." 

"  What  nonsense,  Maggie,"  said  Sally,  who  began  to 
grow  jealous  of  her  sister. 

"  Why  is  it  nonsense  ?  I  see  no  reason  why  Frank 
shouldn't  come  to  some  arrangement  with  the  smith,  and 
turn  his  house  into  a  studio." 

"  Which  is  the  smith's  house  ?  I'll  tell  you  in  a  mo- 
ment if  it  could  be  turned  into  a  studio." 

"  That  house  standing  quite  by  itself  in  the  corner  of 
the  green." 

"  That  tall  narrow  house  with  the  bit  of  broken  wall 
and  the  elder  bushes  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  daresay  I  could  rig  up  a  very  nice  studio  out  of 
that  place,  indeed  it  looks  quite  picturesque  amid  its 
elder  bushes.  There  is  the  stile,  and  there  is  the  corn- 
field.   But  I  couldn't  live  there." 

"  No,  you  would  live  at  Mrs.  Heald's,  and  you  could 
walk  over  every  morning  to  the  studio." 

"  Yes,  I  could  do  that.  I  prefer  to  live  with  my  work. 
There  is  nothing  like  walking  from  the  breakfast  table 
across  the  room  to  the  easel." 

"  Of  course  you  can  find  fault  with  everything ;  nothing 
is  perfect." 

"  There  goes  the  train !  "  cried  Sally.  "  No  use  in 
running  now,  you've  missed  it." 

"  How  very  provoking;  the  next  isn't  till  half-past 
seven — just  an  hour  to  wait." 

"  Well,"  said  Maggie,  "  if  you  have  missed  the  train 
we  may  as  well  go  at  once  and  ask  Mrs.  Heald  if  she 
has  let  her  rooms." 

They  walked  towards  a  block  of  cottages — at  one 
end  the   "Cricketer's   Arms,"   at  the   other  the  grocery 


147 

business;  and  the  cottage  that  joined  the  grocery  business 
was  remarkable  for  a  bit  of  green  paling  and  wooden  bal- 
cony, now  covered  with  Virginia  creeper,  Frank  thought 
at  once  of  new-laid  eggs,  and  the  sunlight  glancing 
through  a  great  mass  of  greenery,  and  he  resolved  if  a 
sacrifice  were  necessary  to  live  at  Southwick,  he  would 
put  his  picture  aside  and  begin  his  novel.  The  people  in 
the  house  pleased  him,  and  he  ran  on  in  his  way  thinking 
how  English  and  trustworthy  they  seemed,  liking  the 
green  parrot  that  rubbed  its  head  affectionately  against 
the  grey  ringlets  of  a  very  ladylike  old  person;  and 
Mrs.  Heald,  brisk  as  a  bee,  notwithstanding  her  lame  leg, 
who  led  the  way  up  the  ladder-like  cottage  staircase. 

"  How  nice  and  clean  everything  is ;  books  and  en- 
gravings along  the  passages.     How  unlike  Ireland !  " 

But  the  sitting-room  was  full  of  horsehair  sofas  and 
chairs.  These  displeased  Frank,  but  some  handsome 
china — an  entire  tea  service  in  Crown  Derby — reconciled 
him  to  the  room.  In  the  bedroom  they  found  a  huge 
four-poster  of  old  time,  with  a  lengthy  bolster  and  im- 
posing pillows,  and  they  were  shown  into  another  and  a 
similar  room.  One  looked  out  on  the  green,  the  other  on 
the  fields  that  lay  between  the  green  and  the  Manor 
House. 

"If  that  elm  were  cut  down  you  could  see  my  win- 
dow," said  Sally. 

"Which  room  do  you  like  the  best?  "  said  Maggie. 

"  It  is  hard  to  say.  The  other  room  looks  on  the  green, 
but  here  there  is  a  nice  large  wardrobe,  and  I  don't  see 
how  I  can  get  on  without  a  wardrobe," 

"  If  you  like  the  other  room  best,  sir,  I  can  turn  out 
the  chest  of  drawers." 

"  Oh,  that  would  be  very  nice  if  you  can  manage  it, 
the  room  will  do  very  well,  I  can  have  a  bath  every 
morning?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  there  will  be  no  difficulty  about  that." 


148 

Maggie  had  taken  off  her  hat  and  was  settling  her  hair 
before  the  glass.  Sally  opened  the  wardrobe,  revealing 
various  petticoats  and  skirts,  but  she  thought  of  it  as 
full  of  Frank's  light  overcoats,  the  scarves  he  wore  round 
his  throat  when  he  went  out  in  evening  clothes,  the  pat- 
ent leather  shoes  in  the  corner.  Suddenly  the  conversa- 
tion dropped,  and  after  a  pause  Frank  said:  "I  think 
these  rooms  suit  me  very  well,  but  I  can  do  nothing;  it 
is  impossible  for  me  to  say  if  I  can  take  them  until  I 
find  out  if  there  is  any  place  in  the  immediate  neighbour- 
hood that  I  coidd  convert  into  a  studio.  Do  you  know 
of  any  such  place.''  " 

"  No,  I  do  not,  sir." 

"  Mr.  Escott  was  thinking  of  seeing  the  smith  about  his 
house.  I  wonder  if  Town  would  let  it  to  Mr.  Escott 
for  a  consideration,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Of  course,  I  should  have  to  get  leave  to  make  what 
alterations  I  pleased." 

"  I  don't  suppose  the  house  belongs  to  Town,  sir ;  I 
don't  think  he  is  more  than  a  weekly  tenant." 

"  If  that's  the  case,  we  must  see  the  landlord.  Do 
you  know  who  is  the  landlord  .f"  " 

"  I  can't  say  I  do,  sir." 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Heald,  I  will  let  you  know  in  a  day  or 
two  if  I  can  take  your  rooms — you  can  give  me  a  day 
or  two  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  I  should  like  to  know  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible; several  people  have  been  asking  after  my  rooms." 

"  I'll  let  you  know  in  a  day  or  two." 

"  If  Town  is  only  a  weekly  tenant,  you'll  be  able  to 
get  his  house  by  paying  a  little  more  for  it,"  said  Mag- 
gie, as  they  walked  down  the  green  towards  the  smith's 
forge. 

"  That  would  be  hardly  fair ;  I  should  like  to  act 
squarely  by  the  smith.     What  is  his  name.''  " 

"  Town." 


149 

Town  was  cutting  out  the  hoof  of  a  shaggy  grey  cart 
horse  when  his  visitors  entered  the  cindery  blackness. 

"  Town,  this  gentleman  would  like  to  speak  to  you," 
said  Maggie,  raising  her  voice  above  the  wheezy  bellows. 
He  threw  the  hoof  out  of  his  apron,  and,  drawing  his 
blackened  arm  across  his  forehead,  he  came  forward. 

"  Town,  I  am  anxious  to  find  a  place  on  the  green  that 
I  could  convert  into  a  studio;  I  think  your  house  would 
suit  my  purpose  very  well.  Do  you  think  we  could  come 
to  some  arrangement?  Of  course,  I  would  give  you  a 
reasonable  compensation." 

"  Well,  I  really  hardly  know,  sir ;  I  dunno  that  I 
hardly  imderstand.     You  want  my  house  to  turn  into 


"  A  studio — a  place  where  I  can  paint  pictures." 
"  I  don't  see  how  I  can  do  without  my  'ouse." 
"  But    I   will   compensate   you — make   it    worth    your 
while." 

"  You  see  it  is  so  near  my  work.  Was  I  to  go  and  live 
at  Ada  Terrace,  I  should,  you  see,  be  out  of  the  way. 
If  people  want  a  job  done  they  always  knows  where  to 
find  me." 

"  Yes,  but  if  I  compensate  you?  " 

Seeing  that  Frank  was  exciting  the  smith  with  too 
wild  hopes  of  wealth,  Sally  thought  fit  to  interpose. 
"  Mr.  Escott  would  require  permission  to  make  any  al- 
terations in  the  building  he  thought  proper — you 
couldn't  give  him  permission;  he  would  in  any  case  have 
to  see  your  landlord.     Who  is  your  landlord  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  can  give  up  my  'ouse  to  be  turned 
into  a  painting  place;  it  wouldn't  suit  me  at  all." 

"  If  I  make  you  sufficient  compensation " 

Again  the  smith  was  reduced  to  silence.  He  scratched 
his  head,  and  Frank  watched  the  sparks  fly,  and  heard 
the  rhythmical  sledge.  "  I  wish  he  wouldn't  talk  so 
much    about    compensation,"   thought    Sally.      "  I    don't 


150 

know  what  the  man  won't  be  asking  if  Frank  doesn't 
shut  up." 

"  Do  you  think  we  shall  be  able  to  come  to  an  under- 
standing?    I  want  to  know." 

"  Well,  you  see,  sir,  my  wife  is  delicate,  and  I'm  that 
afraid  she  wouldn't  like  to  give  up  her  'ome.  But  I'll 
speak  to  'er  if  you  like  to-night,  sir." 

"Mr.  Escott  will  have  to  see  your  landlord;  he  will 
have  to  arrange  with  him  about  the  alterations." 

"  There  will  be  no  difficulty  about  the  alterations." 

"  Very  probably ;  but  you  are  only  a  weekly  tenant. 
It  is  a  question  your  landlord  must  decide.  If  he  agrees 
to  allow  Mr.  Escott  to  make  the  alterations,  Mr.  Escott 
will  no  doubt  compensate  you  for  disturbance." 

"  It  is  all  very  well  to  talk  about  compensation.  How 
do  I  know  what  your  compensation  will  be?  How  do 
I  know  you  will  make  it  worth  my  while?  I  don't  want 
no  compensation.  I  want  my  'ouse.  Cheek  I  calls  it, 
to  come  down  here  wanting  to  muck  me  out  of  my 
house." 

"  Now,  sir,  we  want  no  impertinence.  I  shall  do  ex- 
actly as  I  please  in  the  matter.  Your  landlord  is  the 
person  I  should  have  spoken  to." 

"  Spoken  to !  Who  are  you,  I  should  like  to  know, 
coming  round  here  interfering  in  my  business  ?  " 

All  Frank's  discussions  ended  in  angry  words,  and  he 
never  came  to  terms  with  any  one  without  threatening 
blows.  Town  returned  to  the  forge;  Frank  and  the 
young  ladies  made  their  way  across  the  green.  At  the 
corner  of  Southdown  Road  they  found  the  General,  the 
schoolmaster,  and  a  retired  farmer  ardently  gossiping; 
Mrs.  Horlock,  prim  in  her  black  gown  and  poke  bonnet, 
waited  with  admirable  patience,  and  Angel,  the  blind  pug, 
in  horrible  corpulence,  waddled  and  sniflfed  the  grass. 
The  story  of  Town's  impertinence  was  told.  The  Gen- 
eral was  shocked — it  was  surprising.     What  are  we  com- 


161 

ing  to?  The  retired  farmer  said  that  Town  was  a  hot- 
tempered  man,  but  not  a  bad  sort  when  you  knew  how 
to  take  him,  and  all,  except  Mrs.  Horlock,  agreed  that 
the  landlord  was  the  person  who  should  be  consulted. 

"  I  really  don't  see  why  you  should  turn  the  poor  man 
out  of  his  house  if  he  doesn't  want  to  go.  How  would 
you  like  some  one  to  come  and  turn  you  out  of  your 
house  ?  "  she  said,  turning  to  her  husband. 

The  General  laughed.  "  My  dear  Lucy,  whatever  you 
say  must  be  right.  So  you  are  coming  to  live  at  South- 
wick.  Very  glad  to  hear  it.  You  know  where  to  find 
us,  the  gate's  always  open ;  lunch  at  half-past  one,  dinner 
at  eight — old  Indians,  you  know;  come  in  when  you  like. 
Pretty  place  I  have  here,  everything  I  want — stables 
and  horses,  and  (the  General  looked  to  see  if  Lucy  was 
out  of  hearing)   plenty  of  dogs,  you  know — a  few  too 

many;  but  my  wife,  you  know "    The  rest  was  lost  in 

a  burst  of  good-natured  laughter. 

They  bade  the  Horlocks  good-night  and  walked  up 
the  Southdown  Road,  looking  with  its  line  of  trees  along 
the  pavement  like  a  little  mock  boulevard.  Frank  was 
particularly  severe  in  his  remarks  on  the  trim  privet 
hedges  and  the  little  bronze  sphinxes  standing  before  the 
portico  of  yellow  glass;  he  declared  that  a  man  must  be 
born  to  put  up  such  things,  and  he  clearly  thought  this 
sneer  a  very  happy  one,  for  he  repeated  it,  fearing  that 
Sally  had  not  understood.  The  grocer  who  had  placed 
a  bas-relief  of  himself  over  his  door  was  greatly  won- 
dered at,  and  Sally  told  an  amusing  anecdote  regarding 
the  invitations  he  sent  out  for  the  first  dinner  party.  The 
conversation  turned  on  the  Measons.  Jack's  ship  had 
gone  to  China,  and  he  was  not  expected  back  much  be- 
fore Christmas. 

"  That's  very  sad,  Sally.  How  will  you  be  able  to 
live  through  so  many  months }  " 

"  I  don't  care  for  him.     I  don't  care  if  I  never  saw 


152 

him  again — it  was  Fanny  who  was  my  friend.  Some 
nice  people  have  come  to  live  in  that  corner  house — 
a  young  man,  who  is  learning  farming.  Mr.  Berkins 
insists  on  father  not  allowing  us  to  visit  any  one  in  the 
Southdown  Road,  and  Mr.  Berkins  can  turn  father  round 
his  finger,  he  is  so  much  richer.  I'm  not  allowed  to  see 
Fanny  at  the  Manor  House.  As  for  Jack,  I  daresay  you 
won't  believe  me,  but  I  shouldn't  care  if  I  never  saw 
him  again." 

Maggie  shrugged  her  shoulders.  The  gesture  exasper- 
ated Sally,  and  she  turned  on  her  sister. 

"You  needn't  shrug  your  shoulders  at  me,  miss;  I 
never  flirted  with  him;  you  did,  and  then  you  set  father 
against  me." 

"Well,  for  goodness'  sake  don't  quarrel;  what  does  it 
matter.^  The  idea  of  Berkins  telling  your  father  whom 
he  should  visit;  and  the  idea  of  your  father  permitting 
it  merely  because  he  makes  two  or  three  thousand  a  year 
more!  He  surely  doesn't  object  to  your  visiting  Mrs. 
Horlock?  " 

"  No,  he  couldn't  do  that." 

Still  engaged  in  discussion,  they  entered  the  gates  of 
the  Manor  House,  and  Mr.  Brookes  was  told  that  Frank 
would  stay  at  Southwick  a  few  days  longer,  so  that  he 
might  arrange  about  a  studio.  The  news  was  not  at  first 
wholly  pleasing  to  the  old  gentleman,  but  he  remembered 
the  anecdotes  he  should  hear  concerning  his  favourite 
painters,  and  was  consoled.  The  evening  passed  away  in 
the  security  and  calm  of  habit,  sweetened  by  the  intimacy 
of  familiar  thoughts  and  customs.  There  was  the  usual 
expensive  dinner ;  Mr.  Brookes  lit  a  cigar,  handed  the  box 
to  Frank,  and  said,  puffing  lustily,  "  That's  a  good  pic- 
ture, paid  a  lot  of  money  for  it,  too  much  money,  mustn't 
do  it  again.  You  were  a  pupil  of  Bouguereau;  great 
painter;  you  have  seen  him  paint;  you  would  know  his 
touch  amid  a  thousand,  I  suppose  ?  " 


153 

About  ten  o'clock  steps  in  the  passage,  then  the  squeak 
• — squeak  of  the  cork;  then  the  goggle — guggle  of  the 
water,  and  the  young  ladies  came  in  with  their  grog. 
They  kissed  their  father  and  brother,  shook  hands  with 
Frank,  and  went  to  bed.  Further  anecdotes  concerning 
the  painters  were  told;  further  condemnations  of  the 
Southdown  Road  were  pronounced;  the  house  was  locked 
up ;  Mr.  Brookes  retired,  and  the  young  men  continued 
the  conversation  in  their  rooms.  Willy  told  Frank  all 
about  his  shop,  Frank  told  Willy  all  about  his  studio, 
and  they  went  to  sleep  delighted  with  each  other  and  at 
peace  with  the  world. 

Mr.  Brookes  had  gone  when  the  young  men  came  down 
next  morning.  Willy  was  down  first,  and  when  Frank 
finished  breakfast  he  found  him  busy  in  the  garden  mak- 
ing purchases  for  his  shop. 

"  How  much  am  I  to  charge  for  these  peaches,  sir  ?  " 
said  the  gardener. 

"  I  intend  to  pay  the  market  price  for  everything.  I 
don't  know  what  peaches  are  selling  at  in  Covent  Gar- 
den. I  will  look  it  up  and  let  you  know.  I  am  taking 
two  dozen." 

"  Yes,  sir,  there  are  only  very  few  more  ripe." 

"  It  is  a  pity  I  can't  have  them  all,"  Willy  whispered 
to  Frank.  "  There  is  a  tremendous  profit  to  be  made  on 
peaches.  Now,  I  want  some  new  potatoes.  How  many 
can  you  let  me  have }  " 

"  Really,  sir,  we  are  very  short ;  you  see  it  is  so  early 
in  the  year.  We  have  only  a  few,  none  too  many  for  the 
house." 

"  I  must  have  some,  if  it  is  only  a  sample.  How  much 
are  potatoes  selling  at  now  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,  I  hardly  know.  Last  year  we  bought  some 
off  Hooper  at " 

"  These  are  the  things  I  have  to  contend  with.  How 
am  I  to  keep  my  books  right  if  I  don't  know  exactly 


154 

the  price  things  are  selling  for?  I  may  be  paying  more 
for  his  potatoes  than  they  are  selling  in  Brighton  for. 
My  father  gets  more  out  of  the  shop  than  any  one,  and 
he  isn't  satisfied." 

The  woes  of  this  suburban  Lear  amused  Frank.  No 
sooner  was  the  arch  enemy  Meason  on  the  high  seas, 
and  the  Southdown  Road  had  quieted  down,  than  another 
demon  had  risen  up  against  him;  his  garden  was  ravished 
of  its  fairest  fruits  and  vegetables,  his  carriages  were 
turned  into  market  carts,  and  all,  as  he  said,  for  the  sake 
of  practising  an  elaborate  system  of  book-keeping.  Mag- 
gie, who  had  finished  her  house-keeping,  came  into  the 
garden,  and  she  went  with  Frank  down  the  town  in 
search  of  the  landlord  of  the  tall  house  amid  the  elder 
bushes.  For  a  small  increase  in  the  rent,  and  a  promise 
to  undo  all  alterations  before  leaving,  putting  the  house 
back  in  the  same  arrangement  of  rooms  as  it  at  present 
stood,  the  landlord  agreed  to  allow  Frank  to  do  his  will 
with  the  place.  For  twenty  pounds  the  smith  was 
silenced,  and  Frank  explained  to  the  local  builder  that 
the  house  was  to  be  thrown  into  one  room,  and  the  ceil- 
ings of  the  upper  rooms  were  to  be  removed.  He  had 
thought  of  having  the  rafters  painted,  but  at  the  builder's 
suggestion  he  decided  to  have  them  lined  with  fresh  tim- 
ber and  stained.  This  would  look  very  handsome.  A 
large  window,  some  six  feet  by  eight,  would  have  to  be 
put  in  the  north  wall.  Of  course,  all  the  doors,  windows, 
etc.,  would  have  to  be  taken  away  and  replaced  by  new. 
He  would  have  a  book-case  in  stained  wood.  An  estimate 
was  drawn  up.  It  came  to  a  good  deal  more  than  he  had 
intended  to  lay  out,  and  Frank  dreaded  the  expense.  But 
he  must  live  somewhere,  he  was  sick  of  Pump  Court,  and 
his  friends  and  this  little  south-coast  village  were  now 
ardent  in  his  mind;  why  not  live  here?  True  that  the 
country  was  in  no  way  beautiful  and  offered  no  tempta- 
tions to  a  landscape  painter,  but  he  seldom  painted  land- 


155 

scapes^  and  if  he  wanted  a  bit  of  woodland  he  would  find 
it  over  the  Downs.  Then  there  was  the  sea,  and  that  was 
always  interesting.  Perhaps  Mount  Rorke  would  let  him 
have  the  money.  The  old  fellow  had  never  refused  him 
an  extra  hundred  when  he  asked  for  it.  Yes,  he  would 
risk  it.  So  the  order  was  given,  and  all  the  delays  and 
broken  promises  of  a  builder  began  to  be  experienced  and 
endured.  Frank,  who  now  lodged  at  Mrs.  Heald's,  hung 
around  the  workmen,  counting  each  brick,  and  comment- 
ing on  every  piece  of  woodwork.  He  at  once  took  to 
grumbling  at  their  slowness,  and  he  soon  declared  that 
all  hopes  of  his  being  able  to  finish  his  picture  for  the 
Academy  were  at  an  end,  and  he  paraded  his  misfortunes 
at  the  Manor  House,  at  Mrs.  Horlock's,  and,  indeed,  at 
all  the  houses  he  went  to  for  tea  or  tennis  parties.  The 
painters  especially  annoyed  him,  and  he  even  went  so 
far  as  to  threaten  them  with  an  action. 

Long  before  they  had  finished  his  pictures  had  arrived 
from  London,  and  several  pieces  of  furniture  from 
Brighton.  The  ideas  of  this  young  man  were  now  in 
full  revolt  against  oriental  draperies  and  things  from 
Japan.  The  furniture  was,  therefore,  to  consist  of  large 
cane  sofas  with  pillows  covered  with  a  yellow  chintz 
pattern  which  pleased  him  much.  The  selection  of  a 
carpet  was  a  matter  of  great  moment.  He  received  with 
scornful  smiles  his  upholsterer's  suggestions  of  Persian 
rugs.  Turkey,  Smyrna,  and  Axminster  were  proposed 
and  rejected,  he  even  thought  of  an  Aubusson — no  one 
knew  anything  about  Aubusson  at  Southwick,  and  the 
vivid  blues  and  yellows  and  symmetrical  design  would 
have  at  least  the  merit  of  disturbing  if  not  of  wrecking 
the  artistic  opinions  of  his  friends.  He  discovered  one 
of  tliese  carpets  in  a  back  street  in  Brighton,  and  with 
some  cleaning  and  mending  he  felt  sure  it  could  be  made 
to  look  quite  well.  But  no,  if  you  have  an  Aubusson  car- 
pet you  must  have  Louis  XIV.  furniture  in  the  room. 


156 

and  Louis  XIV.  in  Southwick  would  be  too  absurd. 
Clearly  the  Aubusson  scheme  must  be  abandoned — ^he 
would  have  a  rich  grey  carpet,  soft  and  woolly,  and 
there  should  be  a  round  table  covered  with  a  dark  blue 
cloth,  set  off  with  a  yellow  margin,  and  the  chairs  drawn 
about  the  table  should  be  covered  with  dark  blue  and 
painted  yellow.  A  grand  piano  was  indispensable  in 
Frank's  surroundings,  both  for  its  appearance  in  the 
studio  and  the  relaxation  it  afforded  in  the  various  inter- 
ludes. Several  journeys  to  London  were  made  before 
the  lamps  to  be  used  were  determined  on  (a  modern  de- 
sign was  essential),  and  the  brass  fittings  to  hang  candles 
from  the  rafters  required  still  more  delicate  and  cautious 
consideration;  at  last  it  was  decided  to  have  none. 

All  this  while  Willy  was  busy  with  his  shop.  He  had 
taken  a  whole  house,  and  at  first  he  had  thought  of  letting 
a  room,  but  for  many  reasons  this  scheme  had  to  be  aban- 
doned. He  did  not  know  who  might  take  the  room. 
"  Who  knows — perhaps  one  of  my  own  friends,  a  mem- 
ber of  my  club,  for  instance .''  "  Then  it  would  give  the 
missis  a  lot  of  bother  and  worry,  and  she  had  all  she 
could  do  in  looking  after  the  shop.  To  make  a  thing  a 
success  you  must  think  of  nothing  else.  It  was  a  pity,  but 
it  wasn't  to  be  thought  of.  Otherwise  he  seemed  fairly 
well  satisfied.  There  was  a  back  door  leading  on  to  a 
back  lane,  in  turn  leading  on  to  a  back  street,  so  with 
his  latch-key  he  could  pop  in  and  out  unobserved.  All 
his  books  and  papers  in  the  drawing-room,  the  ledger, 
the  day-book,  the  cash-book  all  ready,  all  to  hand,  so 
that  after  dinner,  when  he  had  smoked  his  pipe,  he  could 
go  to  work.  Frank  alone  was  in  the  secret.  And  how 
the  young  men  enjoyed  going  to  Brighton  together. 
Frank  worried  Willy,  who  ran  up  and  down  stairs  col- 
lecting his  brown  paper  parcels,  calling  upon  him  to 
make  haste.  They  set  forth,  Willy  firm  and  methodical, 
his  shoulders  set  well  back:   Frank  loose  and  swaggering. 


157 

over-dressed.  How  to  get  to  the  shop  was  a  matter  of 
anxious  consideration.  Willy  was  fearful  of  detection, 
and  all  sorts  of  stratagems  were  resorted  to.  Sometimes 
they  would  walk  down  to  the  Old  Steyne,  and  suddenly 
double  and  get  back  through  a  medley  of  obscure  streets, 
or  else  they  would  publicly  walk  up  and  down  the  King's 
Road,  and  when  they  thought  no  one  was  looking,  hurry 
up  one  of  the  by-streets,  and  so  gain  their  haven,  the 
lane.  Once  they  were  in  the  lane  they  slackened  speed, 
all  danger  was  then  over,  and  they  laughed  consumedly 
at  their  escapes,  and  delighted  in  telling  each  other  how 
So-and-so  and  his  daughter  had  been  successfully 
avoided.  Willy  always  had  his  latch-key  ready;  in  a 
moment  they  were  inside,  and  Frank  would  rush  upstairs 
and  throw  himself  into  the  armchair,  crying :  "  Here  we 
are !  "  One  day  they  were  at  the  window,  when,  to  their 
amazement,  the  Manor  House  carriage  pulled  up  before 
the  shop,  and  they  had  only  just  time  to  dodge  behind 
the  curtain  and  escape  Sally's  eyes.  Never  before  had 
the  carriage  arrived  later  than  five  o'clock,  and  now  it 
was  nearly  six.  What  could  be  the  meaning  of  this? 
Begging  of  Frank  not  to  move,  Willy  went  out  on  the 
landing  and  listened  to  his  sisters  talking  to  his  wife. 
The  girls — who  were,  of  course,  ignorant  of  their  rela- 
tionship to  the  shop-woman — liked  Mrs.  Brookes  very 
much,  and  were  fond  of  a  chat  with  her;  and,  looking 
through  the  blinds,  Frank  saw  the  footman  in  all  the 
splendour  of  six  feet  and  grey  livery  carrying  a  small 
pot  of  flowers  worth  sixpence  from  the  carriage  to  the 
shop. 

On  ordinary  days  the  shop  was  shut  at  eight,  but  when 
Willy  and  Frank  dined  there  it  was  closed  an  hour 
earlier.  Frank  enjoyed  his  evenings  there;  he  enjoyed  it 
all — the  homeliness  and  the  quiet.  He  enjoyed  seeing 
Willy  nurse  the  missis  after  dinner,  and  he  found  no 
difficulty  in  pretending  a  certain  interest  in  the  book- 


158 

keeping,  and  an  admiration  for  the  lines  of  figures  all 
carefully  formed,  and  the  beautifully  ruled  lines.  Cissy 
adored  him.  He  took  her  on  his  knee,  and  she  leaned 
her  hollow  cheek  against  his  handsome  face.  She  would 
have  probably  rushed  to  death  to  serve  him.  His 
height,  his  brightness,  his  rings,  his  spotted  neckties — 
all  seemed  so  perfect,  so  beautiful,  to  her;  and  when  he 
brought  his  fiddle  she  would  sit  and  look  at  him,  her 
little  hands  clasped  with  an  intensity  of  love  that  was 
strange  and  pitiful.  Swaying  from  side  to  side,  he  ran 
on  from  tune  to  tune — waltzes,  reminiscences  from  op- 
eras, fragments  of  overtures,  delightful  snatches  from 
Schubert;  and  when  he  introduced  Willy  to  one  tune — a 
tune  in  which  all  his  might-have-been  was  bound — the 
dry  man  seemed  to  grow  drier :  perhaps  it  brought  a  glow 
of  pleasure  to  his  heart:  but  be  this  as  it  may,  he  only 
sat  and  puffed  more  emphatically  at  his  pipe. 


CHAP.  XI. 

FOR  Frank  this  pleasant  English  village  was  now  a 
happy  fete  of  summer  joys  and  occupations.  Oh!  the 
hill  prospects  and  the  shady  gardens  around  the  coasts. 
And  when  he  went  inland  he  would  return  by  choice 
across  tlie  Downs,  and  in  the  patriarchal  valleys  where 
nothing  is  heard  but  the  bell-wether  he  would  stand  in 
the  great,  lonely  darkness,  and  see  the  lights  of  Brighton 
brighten  the  sky  above  the  ridges,  and  climbing  up  the 
ridges,  he  gazed  on  the  vague  sea,  and  the  long  string 
of  coast  towns  were  like  a  golden  necklace. 

His  days  went  like  dreams.  The  morning  hours — 
bachelor  hours — were  full  of  intimacy  and  joy.  The 
joy  of  waking  alone  with  a  strange  and  secret  self  that, 
like  a  shy  bird,  is  all  the  day  chased  out  of  sight  and 
hearing,  but  is  with  you  when  you  awake  in  sweet  health 


159 

in  the  morning;  that  of  waking  alone  with  the  sunlight 
in  the  curtains,  that  of  being  alone  with  your  body  as 
well  as  your  mind,  and  no  presence  to  jar  the  communion. 
There  is  a  dear  privacy  in  morning  hours  of  single  life. 

But  although  the  desire  to  exchange  these  for  the  joys 
of  wedlock  was  germinating  in  Frank,  although  it  was 
inherent  in  him  to  understand  the  husband's  happiness 
when  he  puts  his  arm  round  a  dear  wife's  neck  and 
draws  her  to  him  with  marital  kisses  and  affectionate 
words,  he  was  certainly  conscious  that  each  hour  seemed 
to  bring  its  special  pleasure.  His  room  was  airy  and 
pleasant,  the  window  full  of  the  colour  of  the  green  and 
its  aspects;  the  little  water-course  with  its  brick  bridge, 
the  trees  along  the  embankment,  the  rigging  of  the  ships 
in  the  harbour,  the  linen  drying  in  the  yard.  Of  these 
views  Frank  seemed  never  to  grow  tired;  he  noted  them 
as  he  brushed  his  brown  curls  over  his  forehead,  and 
when  he  sat  at  breakfast  eating  fresh  eggs  and  marma- 
lade. After  breakfast  he  lay  on  the  sofa,  and  read  so- 
ciety papers  and  smoked  cigarettes.  He  could  not  drag 
himself  to  the  studio.  "  A  man  should  live  at  his  studio, 
impossible  to  settle  down  to  work,  if  he  doesn't,"  he 
thought,  and  he  watched  Mrs.  Horlock  coming  up  the 
green  accompanied  by  the  chemist's  wife  and  the  pugs. 

"  Dear  old  lady,  how  nice  she  looks  in  her  black  dress 
and  poke  bonnet !  And  there  goes  the  General — he  is 
giving  all  his  coppers  to  the  children." 

Frank  took  up  a  volume  of  Browning,  turned  over  the 
leaves,  and  laid  the  book  down  to  watch  a  drove  of  horses 
that  had  suddenly  been  turned  out  on  the  green  to  feed, 
and  he  laughed  to  see  the  children  throwing  stones,  mak- 
ing them  gallop  frantically.  Very  often  the  thunder  of 
the  hoofs  alarmed  Triss,  and  he  stood  on  his  hind  legs 
and  barked.  "What  is  it,  old  dog?  What  is  it.''  Like 
to  have  a  go  at  the  horses.''  Shall  we  go  out  and  play 
with  the  pugs?  "     At  the  mention  of  going  out  Triss 


160 

cocked  his  ears  and  barked.  "  I  suppose  I  must  make  a 
move.  I  wonder  what  the  time  is — ^half-past  eleven. 
Good  Heavens!  The  post  will  be  here  at  twelve.  I 
had  better  wait  for  it."  On  waking  his  first  thoughts 
were  for  his  letters,  and  almost  before  he  had  finished 
reading  them  he  had  begun  to  think  of  what  the  mid- 
day delivery  would  bring  him.  To  see  the  boy  pass  and  so 
have  ocular  proof  that  there  was  nothing  for  him  seemed 
to  lighten  his  disappointment.  He  saw  him  waste  his 
time  with  the  doctor's  horse  and  then  with  the  maid- 
servant, and  if  the  old  ladies  were  not  about  he  would 
stand  talking  many  minutes  with  their  servants.  Then 
he  visited  the  short  line  of  cottages,  passed  sometimes 
round  the  yard  or  open  space  at  the  back  of  the  wheel- 
wright's, where  the  linen  hung  on  poles  between  the 
elms,  and  once  Frank  saw  the  provoking  boy  hide  behind 
the  cricketers'  tent  and  remain  watching  the  match. 
For  half  an  hour  the  question — ^letters  or  no  letters — 
hung  in  suspense,  and  when  the  loiterer  came,  stopping 
every  minute  to  see  where  the  ball  was  hit  to,  the  joy, 
heightened  by  anticipation,  was  great  in  receiving  a 
packet  of  newspapers  and  various  correspondence. 
Frank  often  went  to  meet  him.  True,  he  might  have 
nothing  for  him,  he  might  be  going  to  deliver  at  the 
grocer's  shop,  or  at  the  "  Cricketer's  Arms." 
"Any  letters  for  me,  to-day .f*  " 
"  Yes,  sir,  two  postcards  and  a  newspaper." 
It  was  disappointing  not  to  get  a  letter — ^postcards 
meant  nothing.  He  only  exchanged  a  few  words  with  Mrs. 
Horlock,  and  passed  on  to  the  General,  who,  at  the  cor- 
ner of  the  Southdown  Koad  where  the  gossipers  met,  was 
discussing  a  local  candidature. 

"  So  you  are  off  to  paint.  You  must  come  and  see  the 
model  my  wife  has  done  of  a  horse  I  once  had.  I  mustn't 
say  much  about  him,  though — it  is  a  sore  subject.  After 
wiiming  over  a  thousand  with  him  I  lost  it  all,  and  five 


161 

hundred  with  it.  She  never  would  paint  his  picture  for 
me;  but  yesterday  was  my  birthday — I  suppose  she 
thought  she  would  give  me  a  treat,  she  began  to  model 
him  from  memory — wonderful  likeness — she  knows 
every  bone  and  sinew  in  a  horse — clever  woman,  never 
seen  any  one  like  her.  Come  in  to-night,  dinner  always  at 
eight — old  Indians.     She'll  show  it  to  you." 

"  Thanks,  not  to-night,  General ;  to-morrow  night,  if 
you  like." 

"  Very  well,  to-morrow  night  at  eight.  What  a  ter- 
rible dog  that  is  of  yours !  You  need  fear  nobody  while 
you  have  him  with  you.  You  must  ask  my  wife  to  paint 
him  for  you,  but  I  forgot,  I  beg  your  pardon — you  are  a 
painter;   you  should  paint  him  yourself." 

"  I  don't  paint  animals.  I  shall  be  very  glad  if  Mrs. 
Horlock  will  paint  him;  there  is  some  beautiful  drawing 
about  him — ^those  fore-legs." 

Probably  attracted  by  the  dog,  Mrs.  Horlock  came 
walking  towards  them.  Triss  went  sidling  after  Rose, 
and  when  Mrs.  Horlock  called  him,  he  growled. 

"  I  beg  of  you,  Mrs.  Horlock,  do  not  touch  him ;  he 
isn't  safe,  I  assure  you.  He  once  bit  a  man's  nose  off 
who  was  trying  to  train  him  to  do  something  or  other. 
I  will  not  be  answerable." 

"  All  nonsense !  No  dog  ever  bit  me,  they  know  I 
love  them.  *  Come  to  me,  sir.*  No  dog  ever  bit  me  but 
once,  and  he  was  a  poor  mongrel  that  had  been  hunted  by 
a  lot  of  horrid  men.  I  was  dressing  to  go  to  a  ball  at 
the  Government  House,  and  I  heard  him  under  my  bed. 
He  had  taken  refuge  under  my  bed,  poor  thing.  He 
was  frightened  to  death;  he  couldn't  see  me,  and  he  bit 
me  through  the  wrist.  I  went  to  the  ball  all  the  same. 
A  dog  died  of  hydrophobia  in  my  arms.  He  died  like 
a  child,  licking  my  hands  and  face.  '  Come  here,  sir. 
Come  to  me.'  " 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  do  it,  Mrs.  Horlock.    I  am  afraid 


162 

to  call  him,  for  fear  he  should  think  I  intended  to  set  him 
at  you." 

Triss  showed  a  terrible  set  of  teeth,  and  his  nose 
seemed  to  curl  back  almost  into  his  eyes;  but  stooping 
down  Mrs.  Horlock  extended  her  hands  to  him.  She 
looked  so  like  herself  in  the  poke  bonnet  and  the  black 
dress,  and  the  kind,  intelligent  eyes  softened  the  dog's 
humour,  and  he  came  to  her. 

"  You  see — what  did  I  tell  you  ?  Dogs  know  so  well 
those  that  love  them.  No  animal  ever  did  bite  me  ex- 
cept that  poor  frightened  creature,  and  he  didn't  mean 
it.  We  kept  him  for  ten  years  after  that,  and  how  he 
did  love  me !  " 

"  Wonderful  woman,  my  wife ;  she  can  do  what  she 
likes  with  animals.  I  was  telling  Mr.  Escott  that  he 
must  come  in  and  see  the  model  you  are  making  of  Snap- 
dragon." 

"  Only  an  amateur,  I  never  had  a  lesson  in  my  life. 
Mr.  Escott  would  think  nothing  of  it,  I  am  sure.  But 
I  wish  he'd  come  in  and  dine  with  us." 

"  He  promised  to  come  to-morrow,  Lucy;  but  stay, 
isn't  that  the  day  we  are  going  to  have  the  Bath  people 
in  to  dine.''  " 

"  Never  mind — Mr.  Escott  won't  mind,  I'm  sure.  They 
are  very  nice,  good  people,  indeed.  I'm  sure  you'll 
think  so.  They  are  all  snobs  about  this  place.  I  never 
heard  of  such  snobbery  in  my  life.  Mrs.  So-and-so — 
over  there — once  said  to  me,  *  I  believe  you  know  all 
the  people  who  live  in  those  little  houses.*  She  said 
she  wouldn't  allow  her  children  even  to  walk  across  the 
green.     Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  snobbery?  " 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Horlock,  as  I  have  always  said,  your 
position  is  made;  you  have  your  friends  who  will  like 
you  and  value  you  just  the  same  no  matter  whom  you 
may  walk  about  the  green  with.  Every  Viceroy  that 
ever  went  to  India  called  on  you;  your  position  is  made." 


163 

"  There  are  a  lot  of  snobs  about  here ;  but  I  mustn't 
keep  Angel  waiting,  he  is  never  well  unless  he  gets  a 
little  exercise.     We  shall  see  you  then  at  eight." 

"  The  cleverest  woman  I  ever  knew.  I  don't  say  the 
cleverest  that  you  ever  knew.  But  we  have  got  too  many 
animals;  I  often  wish  I  could  get  rid  of  the  brutes,"  and 
the  General  laughed  as  he  stumped  along.  "  Five  horses 
when  two  would  be  sufficient — five  horses  eating  their 
heads  off;  then  the  Circassian  goats  that  the  neighbours 
complain  of,  and  the  parrots  and  the  squirrels.  There 
are  a  few  too  many,  there's  no  doubt.  But  once  an  ani- 
mal comes  into  the  place  she  will  cherish  it  for  ever.  I 
try  to  keep  Prince  out  of  the  drawing-room  as  much  as 
possible,  she  says  she  can't  smell  him.  If  that  little 
beast  Angel  would  only  die !  " 

"  Why  don't  you  poison  him  ?  " 

"  I  would  if  I  dared;  but  just  think,  if  my  wife  heard 
of  it  she  would  go  out  of  her  mind.  I  don't  think  she'd 
have  me  in  the  house."     The  General  laughed. 

"  We  all  have  our  troubles.  General.  Good-bye,  I'm 
off  to  work." 

"  Lucky  man  to  have  something  to  do.  If  I  had  a 
little  something — just  a  little  something  to  bring  me 
out,  I  should  be  perfectly  happy.  Then  at  eight. 
Good-bye." 

"  Half-past  twelve !  Half  the  day  gone.  I  really 
must  make  an  effort  to  get  to  the  studio  earlier.  It  is, 
as  I  said,  useless  to  hope  to  get  through  work  unless 
you  wake  up  where  your  work  is.  A  man  doesn't  get  a 
chance.  I  wonder  if  I  could  build  a  bedroom  out  at  the 
back?  I  have  let  Mount  Rorke  in  for  three  hundred 
extra  this  year;  he  would  turn  rusty  if  I  spent  any 
more.  I  must  give  him  a  rest;  besides,  I  don't  want  to 
have  the  workmen  in  again.  I  wish  I  could  get  ivy  to 
grow  over  those  walls,  they  do  look  precious  shabby." 

He  looked  at  the  tall  dilapidated  walls  showing  above 


164 

the  dark  green  of  the  elder  bushes,  and  lingered,  for  it 
was  a  soft  blue  summer's  day  with  just  a  breeze  stir- 
ring, and  the  corn  waved  yellow,  and  the  dim  expanses 
of  the  Downs  extended  in  faint  lines  and  dim  tints. 

When  he  entered  his  studio  his  colour  scheme  pleased 
him,  and  looking  at  the  rafters  he  thought  that  the 
stained  wood  was  handsome  and  appropriate.  The  grey 
carpet  was  soft  tuider  foot,  and  the  lustre  and  form  of 
a  grand  piano  suggested  Chopin  and  Schubert.  His 
studio  seemed  to  him  a  symbol  of  his  own  refinement, 
and  being  moved,  perhaps,  by  the  silence  and  the  quiet 
of  the  north  light,  he  took  his  violin,  and  turning  from 
time  to  time  to  look  on  himself  on  the  glass  or  his  pic- 
ture on  the  easel,  he  played  Stradella's  "  Chanson 
d'Eglise." 

Then  seeing,  or  rather  thinking  he  saw,  how  he  could 
improve  his  landscape,  he  took  up  his  palette,  and  in  a 
desultory  and  uncertain  fashion  he  painted  till  five 
o'clock.  "  It  is  no  use,"  he  thought,  "  I  can  do  nothing 
with  it  till  I  get  a  model,  but  the  devil  of  it  is,  there  are 
no  models  in  Brighton — at  least,  I  don't  know  where 
to  go  and  look  for  one,  and  it  is  no  use  asking  Sally  or 
Maggie  to  sit.  They'll  sit  for  five  minutes,  and  then 
say  they  have  some  work  to  do  at  home,  and  must  be 
off.  You  must  have  a  professional  model,  a  girl  you 
pay  a  shilling  an  hour — I  might  sling  the  hammock  from 
there  to  here — I  wonder  where  I  could  get  a  girl  who 
would  do.  I  can't  have  a  girl  off  the  street;  she  must 
be  more  or  less  respectable — I  wonder  whom  I  can  get. 
That  girl  in  the  bar  room  at  the  station  would  do." 
Putting  his  palette  away  with  a  lazy  gesture,  he  thought 
for  a  few  minutes  of  Lizzie  Baker.  What  had  become 
of  her?     And  why  had  she  disappeared? 

It  was  nearly  a  year  and  a  half  ago  now.  What  a 
jolly  day  up  the  river!  All  the  beauty  of  the  flowing 
water,  the  crowning  woods  and  whispering  rushes  filled 


166     . 

his  mind;  and  yielding  to  the  moment's  emotion  he  took 
some  verses  out  of  an  escritoire  and  altered  several  lines. 
Another  abandoning  the  search  for  a  suitable  rhyme  he 
turned  to  a  portrait  of  Maggie  which  he  had  begun  a 
few  days  before.  She  stood  in  a  pose  that  was  habitual 
to  her — her  hands  linked  behind  her,  the  head  leaned 
on  one  side,  the  little  black  eyes — but  not  ugly  eyes — 
fixed  in  a  sweet  subtle  and  enquiring  look.  The  thin- 
ness, and,  indeed,  the  angularity  of  her  figure  was  almost 
powerfully  indicated  with  broad  lines  of  paint  and  char- 
coal. It  was  Frank's  most  successful  effort.  He  knew 
this,  and  he  said  to  himself,  "  Not  half  bad,  very  like 
her,  quite  the  character;  the  drawing  is  right,  if  I  could 
only  go  on  with  it;  if  I  could  only  model  the  face.  I 
see  very  well  where  I  shall  get  into  trouble — that  shadow 
about  the  neck,  the  jawbone,  the  cheekbone,  and  then  all 
that  rich  colour  about  the  eyes."  Then  he  thought  he 
would  walk  over  to  the  Manor  House,  and  he  must 
hasten,  for  it  was  half-past  five,  and  tea  was  always 
ready  in  the  verandah. 

He  stayed  for  dinner;  he  talked  to  Mr.  Brookes  about 
painters  in  the  billiard-room;  he  strayed  through  the 
shadows  and  the  perfumes  of  leaves  and  flowers,  through 
the  gentle  moonlight  with  his  arms  about  the  girls.  And 
as  they  walked  it  seemed  to  Frank  that  his  life  was  so 
mingled  with  theirs  that  he  could  not  think  of  one  sister 
apart  from  the  other.  The  dusk  gathered;  the  sky  be- 
came a  decoration  in  blue  and  gold;  the  scent  of  the  sea 
came  over  the  embankment,  filling  the  garden.  Day 
followed  day,  without  anything  happening  to  stay  or 
check  the  gentle  tide  of  their  mutual  affections;  neither 
was  jealous  of  her  sister,  for  their  desires  were  set  upon 
others.  Frank  was  but  an  ideal,  a  repose,  a  pious  as- 
piration which  joined  their  hands  and  hearts  leaving  them 
free  of  any  stress  of  passion,  Maggie  claiming  him  a 


166 

little  more  than  Sally,  and  Sally  yielding  her  claim  to 
her  without  knowing  that  she  was  yielding  it. 

It  is  only  natures  that  are  never  gross — calm  and 
tepid  livers — that  are  really  incapable  of  ideality,  of  real 
and  adequate  aspiration;  nature  works  by  flux  and  re- 
flux; and  if  we  waive  the  rough  temper  and  the  coarse 
edge  of  passion  due  to  youth,  it  will  not  be  impossible 
to  conceive  another  picture  of  these  girls.  Sally,  good- 
hearted  and  true,  full  of  sturdy,  homely  sense,  willing 
to  take  care  of  a  man's  money,  and  make  him  a  straight- 
forward wife;  Maggie,  gentle  and  sinuating — always  a 
little  false,  but  always  attractive,  the  enchantment  of  a 
man's  home.  Frank,  notwithstanding  his  genuine  ad- 
miration of  all  that  was  young  and  sweet  and  pure,  was 
of  poor  and  separating  fibre,  and  it  is  clear  that  it  will 
take  all  the  strength  of  society  to  support  him  and  save 
him  from  sinking  of  his  own  weight. 

One  day,  as  he  was  coming  through  the  station  from 
the  post-office,  he  met  Maggie  with  a  young  man.  He 
was  introduced,  and  they  returned  to  the  Manor  House 
to  play  tennis.  Instead  of  playing  they  talked,  and  the 
set  fell  through,  and  after  tea  they  disappeared,  and 
Sally  proposed  not  to  disturb  them,  for  they  had  gone, 
she  said,  to  sit  in  the  shade  at  the  end  of  the  garden. 
The  marked  mystery  of  the  new  flirtation  piqued  Frank's 
curiosity,  and,  striving  to  veil  his  question,  he  asked  Sally 
who  the  young  man  was,  and  if  her  father  knew  he  was 
coming  to  the  Manor  House. 

"  He !  Don't  you  know .''  That's  the  fellow  we  often 
speak  of — the  only  fellow  Maggie  ever  really  cared  for. 
He  has  just  come  back  from  America.  He  is  going  to 
begin  business  in  London." 

A  sickening  pain  rose  from  his  heart  to  his  eyes,  and 
he  longed  to  place  his  hand  on  his  heart. 

"  So  that  is  the  man  she  is  engaged  to,"  he  said,  after 


167 

a  pause.  "  I  remember,  now,  you  have  spoken  to  me 
of  him." 

"  She  is  not  exactly  engaged  to  him.  Father  would 
never  hear  of  it;  he  hasn't  a  cent,  and  I  believe  he  lost 
the  little  he  had  in  America — now  mind  you  must  take 
care  not  to  let  out  to  father  that  he  has  been  here;  there 
would  be  the  deuce  of  a  row,  and  I  promised  Maggie 
not  to  tell  any  one;  she  has  been  nice  to  me  lately,  and  I 
want  to  play  fair  with  her  if  she  will  play  fair  with  me." 

"  Oh,  I  won't  tell  any  one ;  I  won't  even  let  Maggie 
know  that  I  know  it  was  he." 

"  It  doesn't  matter  about  Maggie,  she  will  tell  you 
herself,  no  doubt;  she  doesn't  mind  your  knowing. 
What  do  you  think  of  him?     Isn't  he  nice-looking.''" 

"  I  confess  I  should  never  have  thought  of  calling  him 
handsome — would  you.''  And  do  you  think  he  is  quite 
a  gentleman  ?  " 

"  He  seems  to  me  to  be  all  right." 

"  All  right,  yes,  but  isn't  there  a  something?  You 
can  see  he  is  in  trade — all  the  trading  people  look  alike, 
at  least  so  I  think." 

"  But  we  are  in  trade,  and  I  think  he  is  quite  as  good 
as  we  are.  But  you  seem  quite  put  out.  Would  you 
like  to  take  his  place?  I  didn't  know  you  were  in  love 
with  Maggie." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  am  in  love  with  her.  I  like  her 
very  much;  but,  love  or  no  love,  I  don't  think  it  is  right 
for  her  to  walk  round  the  garden  alone  with  that  fellow 
the  whole  afternoon.  I  don't  think  it  is  very  polite  to 
me,  and  she  knows  her  father  does  not  like " 

"  But  you  mustn't  say  anything  to  father ;  mind  you 
have  promised  me." 

"  Oh,  I  shan't  say  anything  about  it." 

Frank  longed  to  get  up  from  the  tea-table  and  rush 
after  Maggie.  His  heart  ached  to  see  her.  He  trembled 
lest  she  loved  the  man  she  was  with,  and  rejoiced  and 


168 

took  courage  from  the  knowledge  that  she  had  not  for- 
mally pledged  herself  to  him.  Frank  was  the  romantic 
husband,  not  the  lover;  he  found  neither  charm  nor  ex- 
citement in  change;  his  heart  demanded  one  single, 
avowed,  and  binding  faith.  He  could  take  a  woman  who 
had  sinned  to  his  heart,  and  admit  her  to  all  his  trust, 
for  stolen  kisses  and  illicit  love  were  unfelt  and  im- 
perfectly understood  by  him,  and  were  considered  as 
shadows  and  thin  fancies,  and  not  as  facts  full  of  mental 
consequences.  He  answered  Sally  in  monosyllables,  and 
on  the  first  opportunity  he  pleaded  letters  to  write,  and 
withdrew.  The  gladness  he  felt  that  Maggie  was  truly 
not  engaged  to  this  fellow  quickened  and  dominated  his 
regret  that  the  girls  were  inclined  to  behave  so  indis- 
creetly. The  moment  Mr.  Brookes  turned  his  back  it 
began — that  perpetual  going  and  coming  of  men — ^it 
really  wasn't  right.  Sally  was  a  coarser  nature,  but 
Maggie!  He  might  speak  to  Mr.  Brookes;  no,  that 
wouldn't  do.  He  might  speak  to  Willy;  but  Willy  didn't 
care — he  was  absorbed  in  his  wife  and  his  speculations. 

His  little  dinner  at  Mrs.  Heald's  passed  in  irritation 
and  discomfort,  and  after  dinner  he  stood  at  the  window, 
his  brain  full  of  Maggie — her  graces,  her  fascinating 
cunning,  and  all  her  picturesqueness.  He  knew  nothing 
yet  of  his  passion,  nor  did  he  think  he  could  not  bear  to 
lose  her  until  he  went  from  the  stuffy  cottage  towards 
his  studio  thinking  of  his  portrait  of  her.  He  wanted 
to  muse  on  the  little  eyes  as  he  had  rendered  them.  He 
saw  the  faults  in  the  drawing  hardly  at  all,  and  his  pain 
softened  and  almost  ceased  when  he  took  up  the  violin, 
but  when  he  put  it  down  the  flow  of  subjective  emotion 
ceased,  and  he  stared  on  the  concrete  and  realistic  image 
of  his  thought — Maggie  passing  through  the  shade  with 
the  young  stranger. 

Who  was  he.^  By  whose  authority  was  he  there  .^ 
Was  he  one  of  those  men  whose  only  pleasure  is  to  tempt 


169 

girls,  to  corrupt  them?  Had  he  thought  of  this  before 
his  duty  would  have  been  to  interpose;  and  he  saw  him- 
self striding  down  the  garden  and  telling  Maggie  that  he 
insisted  on  her  coming  back  to  the  verandah  to  her  sister. 
It  did  not  matter  if  he  had  no  right,  he  was  prepared 
to  answer  for  his  conduct  to  her  father  and  brother.  Did 
that  man  look  like  one  of  those  men  who  are  always  sit- 
ting with  girls  in  far  corners  out  of  sight?  Ah,  if  he 
were  sure  that  he  was  one  of  those  dastardly  ruffians 
he  would  seek  him  out,  force  him  to  speak  his  intentions. 
If  a  girl's  father  and  brother  will  not  look  after  her,  a 
friend  must  say  "  I  will."  Yes,  he  would  have  to  thrash 
him,  kill  him,  if  it  were  necessary.  She  might  hate  him 
for  it  at  first,  but  in  the  end  she  would  recognise  him  as 
her  saviour. 

It  was  too  late  now,  the  man  was  in  Brighton.  To- 
morrow ?  Elated  with  what  he  deemed  "  duty,"  with 
what  he  deemed  "  for  the  sake  of  the  girl,"  he  strode 
about,  thinking  of  "  the  ruffian  " ;  no  thought  came  to 
him  of  how  much  of  the  sin,  if  sin  there  there  was,  had 
originated  in  Maggie;  he  saw  her  merely  as  a  poor  little 
thing,  led  like  a  lamb.  Following  the  idea  of  saving 
came  the  idea  of  possession.  When  she  clung  to  the 
husband  she  would  tremble  at  the  danger  she  had  es- 
caped. Their  home,  their  table,  their  fireside;  protection 
from  evil,  now  all  wild  winds  might  rage — they  would 
be  safe.  The  vision  was  constitutional  and  characteristic 
of  his  soul.  He  was  out  of  thought  of  all  but  himself, 
his  dream  evolved  in  pure  idea,  removed  from  and  inde- 
pendent of  all  limitations — out  of  concern  of  the  world's 
favour — Mount  Rorke,  Mr.  Brookes,  or  even  the  girl's 
grace.  As  this  temper  passed,  as  reality  again  inter- 
posed, and  as  he  saw  the  garden  with  Maggie  leaving 
him  for  another,  he  viewed  her  conduct  suddenly  in  rela- 
tion to  himself.  What  did  she  mean  by  treating  him  so, 
and   for   whom?     One   day   he   would    be    Lord    Mount 


170 

Rorke !  The  Brookeses  knew  nobody.  He  had  only  met 
a  lot  of  cads  at  their  house;  they  did  not  know  any  one 
but  cads.  The  Brookeses  were  cads !  The  father  was  a 
vulgar  old  City  man,  who  talked  about  money  and  bought 
ridicidous  pictures.  The  girls,  too,  were  vidgar  and 
coarse.  God  only  knew  how  many  lovers  they  had  not 
had.  Willy  was  the  best  of  the  bunch,  but  he  was  a  fool. 
His  miserliness  and  his  vegetable  shop — hateful!  The 
whole  place  was  hateful;  he  wished  he  had  never  come 
there;  since  he  had  been  there  he  had  never  been  treated 
even  as  a  gentleman.  The  Brookeses  had  treated  him 
shamefully. 

The  skeleton  of  Frank's  soul  is  easy  to  trace  in  this 
mental  crisis — his  quixotism,  his  wish  to  sally  forth  and 
save  women,  his  yearning  for  a  pretty  little  wife,  who 
would  sit  on  his  knee  and  kiss  him,  saying,  "  Poor  old 
boy,  you  are  tired  now;  "  therefore  an  emotional  and 
distorted  apprehension  of  things,  a  tendency  to  think 
himself  a  wronged  and  persecuted  person,  and  under 
much  bravado  and  swagger  the  cringe  that  is  so  invet- 
erate in  the  Celt. 

Next  morning  he  thought  of  her  lightly,  without  bit- 
terness and  almost  without  desire;  but  after  breakfast  his 
heart  began  to  ache  again.  He  strove  to  read,  he  went 
to  his  studio,  he  went  to  Brighton;  but  he  saw  Maggie 
in  all  things.  She  was  with  him — a  sort  of  vague  pain 
that  kept  him  strangely  conscious  of  life. 

Once  convinced  he  was  a  lover  he  became  the  man 
with  a  mission ;  his  heart  swelled  with  mysterious  prompt- 
ings, and  felt  the  spur  of  duty.  No  longer  was  delay 
admissible.  A  day,  an  hour  might  involve  the  loss  of  all. 
Should  he  go  round  to  the  Manor  House  and  tell  Maggie 
of  the  message  he  had  received  to  love  her  and  save  her.'' 
She  would  now  be  watering  her  flowers  in  the  green- 
houses. But  that  other  fellow  might  be  there — he  had 
heard   something   about    an    appointment.     No,   he    had 


171 

better  write.  If  he  wrote  at  once,  absolutely  at  once, 
he  would  be  in  time  for  the  six  o'clock  delivery.  Snatch- 
ing a  sheet  of  paper  he  wrote: — 

"  Dearest  Maggie, — I  have  loved  you  a  long  while, 
I  remember  many  things  tliat  make  me  think  that  I  have 
always  loved  you;  but  to-day  I  have  learnt  that  you  are 
the  one  great  and  absorbing  influence — that  without  you 
my  life  would  be  stupid  and  meaningless,  whereas  with 
you  it  shall  be  a  joy,  an  achievement. 

"  I  have  frittered  away  much  time ;  my  efforts  in  paint- 
ing and  poetry  have  been  lacking  in  strength  and  per- 
sistency. I  have  vacillated  and  wandered,  and  I  did  not 
know  why;  but  now  I  know  why — because  you  were  not 
by  me  to  encourage  me,  to  help  me  by  your  presence  and 
beauty.  I  will  not  speak  of  the  position  I  offer  you — I 
know  it  is  unworthy  of  you.  I  would  like  to  give  you  a 
throne;  but,  alas,  I  can  but  promise  you  a  coronet." 

His  hand  stopped  and  he  raised  his  eyes  from  the 
paper.  He  recollected  the  day  he  saw  her  a  child,  the 
day  they  went  blackberrying  over  the  hills.  He  saw 
her  again,  she  was  older  and  prettier,  and  she  wore  a 
tailor-cut  cloth  dress.  How  pretty  she  looked  that  day, 
and  also  when  she  wore  that  summer  dress,  those  blue 
ribbons.  All  the  colour,  innocence,  and  mirth  of  his 
childhood  came  upon  him  sweetly,  like  an  odour  that 
passes  and  recalls.  He  sighed,  and  he  murmured,  "  She 
is  mine  by  right,  all  this  could  not  have  been  if  she  were 
not  for  me."  Ah!  how  he  longed  to  sit  with  her,  even 
at  her  feet,  and  tell  her  how  his  life  would  be  but  worship 
of  her.  He  regretted  that  he  was  not  poor,  for  to  unite 
himself  more  closely  to  her  he  would  have  liked  to  win 
her  clothes  and  food  by  his  labour;  and  hearing  himself 
speaking  of  love  and  seeing  her  as  a  maiden  with  the 
May  time  about  her,  his  dreams  drifted  until  the  ticking 
of  the  clock  forced  him  to  remember  that  he  could  tell 
her  nothing  now  of  all  his  romance,  so  with  pain  and 
despair  at  heart  he  wrote, 

"  Never  before  did  I  so  ardently  feel  the  necessity  of 
seeing  you,  of  sharing  my  soul  with  you,  and  yet  now 


172 

is  the  moment  when  I  say,  I  must  end.  But  let  this  end 
be  the  beginning  of  our  life  of  love,  devotion,  and  trust. 
I  will  come  to-night  to  see  you;  I  will  not  go  into  the 
billiard-room,  but  will  walk  straight  to  the  drawing-room. 
Do  be  there.  Dearest  Maggie,  I  am  yours  and  yours 
only." 

He  seized  his  hat  and  rushed  to  the  post.  He  was  in 
time,  and  now  that  the  step  had  been  taken,  he  walked 
back  looking  more  than  usually  handsome  and  tall, 
pleased  to  see  the  children  run  out  of  school  and  roll  on 
the  grass,  pleased  to  linger  with  the  General. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  sir.''  "  said  the  old  man. 

"  I'm  going  to  my  studio  to  play  the  fiddle.  Will  you 
come.''     I'll  give  you  a  glass  of  sherry,  and " 

"  Never  touch  anything,  except  at  meals.  I  used  to 
when  I  was  as  young  as  you,  but  not  now.  But  I  will 
go  and  hear  a  little  music." 

Glad  to  have  a  companion,  Frank  took  out  the  violin, 
and  he  played  all  the  melodies  he  knew;  and  his  mind 
ran  chiefly  on  Schubert  and  Gounod.  The  "  Soir,"  the 
"  Printemps,"  and  "  La  Chanson  du  Printemps  "  carried 
his  soul  away,  nor  could  he  forbear  to  sing  when  he 
came  to  the  phrase,  "  La  Neige  des  Pommiers."  When 
musical  emotion  ran  dry  he  tried  painting,  but  with  poor 
result.  During  dinner  he  grew  fevered  and  eager  to  see 
Maggie,  and  mad  to  tell  her  that  he  loved  her,  and  could 
love  none  but  her.  At  half-past  eight  the  torture  of 
suspense  was  more  than  he  could  endure,  and  he  decided 
that  he  would  go  to  the  Manor  House.  He  passed  round 
the  block  of  cottages,  and  got  into  the  path  that  between 
the  palings  led  through  the  meadows.  It  was  a  soft 
summer  evening — moonlight  and  sunset  played  in  gentle 
antagonism,  and  in  a  garden  hat  he  saw  Maggie  coming 
towards  him.  He  noticed  the  pink  shawl  about  her 
shoulders,  and  the  thought  struck  him,  "  had  she  come 
to  ask  him  to  elope."  She  stopped,  and  she  hesitated 
as  if  she  were  going  to  turn  back  again. 


173 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said,  speaking  with  difficulty, 
"  but  I  wanted  you  to  get  this  before  nine." 

"Never  mind,  darling,"  he  answered,  smiling;  "you 
can  tell  me  all  about  it — it  will  be  sweeter  to  hear  you 
talk.     Which  way  shall  we  go-f*  " 

"  I  really  don't  think  I  can  now;  father  doesn't  know 
I  am  out.     This  letter  will " 

"  No,  no ;  I  cannot  bear  to  part  with  you.  How  pretty 
you  look  in  that  hat!     Come." 

"  No,  Frank,  I  cannot  now,  and  you  had  better  leave 
me.     I  cannot  walk  with  you  to-night.     Read  this  letter." 

"  Then  am  I — is  it  really  so .''  "  said  Frank,  growing 
suddenly  pale.     "  You  will  not  have  me?  " 

"  You  must  read  this  letter,  it  will  tell  you  all.  I  am 
truly  sorry,  but  I  did  not  know  you  cared  for  me — at 
least  not  like  that.  I  don't  think  I  could,  I  really  don't. 
But  I  don't  know  what  I  am  saying.  How  unfortunate 
it  was  meeting  you.  I  but  thought  to  run  round  and 
leave  the  letter,  it  would  have  explained  all  better  than 
I  could.  We  have  known  you  so  long.  You  will  for- 
give me  ?  " 

She  stood  with  the  letter  in  her  hand.  He  snatched 
it  a  little  theatrically  and  tore  it  open.  She  watched, 
striving  to  read  the  effect  of  her  words  in  his  face.  They 
dealt  in  regrets.  There  was  an  exasperating  allusion 
to  engaged  affections.  There  was  a  long  and  neatly- 
worded  conclusion  suggesting  friendship.  She  had  taken 
a  great  deal  of  trouble  with  the  composition,  and  was 
very  fearful  as  to  the  result.  She  felt  she  could  not 
marry  him — at  least,  not  just  at  present,  she  didn't  know 
why.  Altogether  Frank's  proposal  had  puzzled  and  dis- 
tressed her.  She  felt  she  must  see  her  flirtation  out  with 
Charley,  but  at  the  same  time  she  did  not  want  to  utterly 
lose  Frank,  or  worse  still,  perhaps,  to  hand  him  over  to 
Sally.  She  was  determined  that  Sally  should  not  be 
Lady  Mount  Rorke,  and  she  thrilled  a  little  when  she 


174 

saw  he  would  not  give  her  up  easily,  and  her  heart  sank 
when  she  thought  of  the  difficulty  of  continuing  her  in- 
trigue without  prejudicing  her  future.  If  Frank  would 
only  leave  Southwick  for  a  little  while. 

"  Is  this  all }  The  meaning  is  clear  enough ;  it  means 
that  you  love  the  man  I  saw  yesterday  at  the  Manor 
House.  But  he  shall  not  have  you;  I  will  save  you  from 
him.  Listen  to  me — I  swear  he  shall  not  have  you;  I 
will  strive  to  outwit  him  by  every  means  in  my  power. 
If  I  don't  get  you,  none  shall.  I  will  shoot  the  man 
rather  than  he  should  get  you." 

"  O  Frank,  you  wouldn't  commit  murder !  " 

"  I  would,  for  you ;  but  it  will  not  be  necessary.  I 
can  challenge  him  to  fight  a  duel,  and  if  he  is  cowardly 
enough  to  refuse,  I  will  horsewhip  him  before  your  face, 
and  I  don't  suppose  you  will  marry  him  after  that." 

Maggie  struggled  with  feelings  of  laughter,  fear,  and 
delight;  delight  overpowered  laughter,  for  Frank  was 
young  and  handsome,  and  full  of  what  he  said.  It  was 
quite  romantic  to  be  talked  to  like  that.  She  would  like 
to  see  the  men  threaten  each  other.  But  then — the  scan- 
dal— father  might  never  get  over  it.  And  if  he  married 
again?  Speaking  slowly,  and  in  an  undertone  so  as  not 
to  betray  herself,  she  said:  "O  Frank,  I'm  sure  you 
would  not  do  anything  that  would  injure  me." 

"  My  darling,  I  love  you  better  than  the  whole  world. 
My  whole  life,  if  you  will,  shall  be  spent  in  striving  to 
make  you  happy." 

"  You  are  very  good."  She  took  his  hand  and  squeezed 
it;  he  returned  the  pressure  with  rapturous  look  and 
motion.  She  drew  from  him  a  little,  for  there  were  some 
people  coming  towards  them,  and  she  said:  "Take 
care."  When  the  fisher  folk  had  passed,  she  looked  at 
him  stealthily.  She  had  always  liked  him  in  that  neck- 
tie, and  those  cloth  shoes  were  perfect.  Had  she  never 
known  Charley,  or  if  she  had  not  gone  so  far  with  him ! — 


176 

There  was  something  in  Frank  that  was  very  nice — she 
could  like  the  two.  What  a  pity  the  two  were  not  one! 
"  If  he  were  always  as  nice  as  he  is  now,  and  not  lecture 
me ! "  Then  she  remembered  she  must  return  home. 
"  I  must  really  go  home ;  I  can't  go  any  farther " 

"  No,  no,  I  cannot  leave  you.  I  must  see  and  hear  you 
now.  If  you  knew  what  I  have  endured  waiting  for  you, 
you  would  not  be  so  cruel.  Come  and  let  us  sit  on  the 
beach." 

"  I  couldn't.  I  must  go  back ;  father  will  miss  me. 
Besides,  what  have  we  to  say.^  If  I  were  only  free  and 
could  tell  you  that  I  loved  you,  it  would  be  different." 

"  Free !  then  you  regret ;  if  a  woman  wills  it  she  can 
always  free  herself." 

"  No,  it  is  harder  than  you  think  for  a  girl  to  get  out 
of  an  engagement  she  has  entered  into,  even  if  no  abso- 
lute promise  has  been  given." 

"What  do  you  mean?  If  you  have  entered  into  no 
formal  engagement  you  are  surely  free." 

"  I  don't  know.  Do  you  think  so?  I  am  afraid  men 
think  that  a  promise  may  be  broken  after  marriage  as 
well  as  before." 

"  You  are  wrong.  Women  who  are  jealous,  who  are 
old,  tell  girls  that  men  are  always  unfaithful,  but  I'm 
sure  that  if  I  loved  a  girl  I  could  never  think  of  another. 
Do  you  really  think  I  could  think  of  any  girl  but  you?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     I  wonder  if  all  you  say  is  true." 

"  Do  you  think  me  different  from  other  men?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  cannot  go  on  the  beach ;  some  other  eve- 
ning I  will  walk  there  with  you." 

"  No,  now,  now — I  want  to  tell  you  how  and  when  I 
began  to  love.  Do  you  remember  when  I  used  to  spend 
part  of  my  holidays  at  the  Manor  House  when  I  was 
only  so  high,  and  you  were  all  in  short  frocks?  Come, 
there  is  much  I  want  to  say  to  you;  I  cannot  part  with 


176 

you.  Come,  and  let  us  sit  on  the  shingle.  Oh,  the 
beautiful  evening !  " 

She  could  love  him  a  little  when  she  looked  at  him, 
but  when,  he  talked  she  lost  interest  in  him.  She  had 
allowed  him  to  take  her  hand,  he  had  bent  towards  her, 
and  she  had  let  him  kiss  her;  and  then  they  talked  of 
love — she  of  its  bitterness  and  disappointments;  he  of 
its  aspirations,  and  gradually  their  souls  approached  like 
shadows  in  the  twilight,  paused  for  a  few  vague  moments, 
seemed  as  if  lost  in  dreams. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  this  night !  O  my  love,  tell  me 
one  day  you  will  be  mine !  " 

"  I  cannot  promise,  you  must  not  ask  me." 

"  We  are  meant  for  each  other.  It  was  not  blind  fate 
that  cast  us  together.  Does  no  voice  tell  you  this.''  I 
hear  it  in  my  heart." 

The  abandonment,  the  mystery  of  the  gathering  dusk, 
touched  Maggie's  fancy.  They  were  alone  in  the  twi- 
light, and  it  was  full  of  the  romance  of  a  rising  tide. 

"  Never  did  I  know  such  happiness ;  I  am  supremely 
happy,  alone  with  you  beneath  this  sky,  listening  to  the 
vague,  wild  voice  of  the  sea.  It  would  be  bitter  sweet 
to  die  in  such  a  triumphant  hour.  Supposing  we  were 
to  lie  here  and  allow  the  sea  to  take  us  away." 

"  No,  I  don't  want  to  die.  I  want  to  live  and  enjoy 
my  life." 

The  answer  fell  a  little  chillingly  on  Frank's  rapture. 
Then  after  a  pause,  Maggie  said:  "  I  think  I  have  read 
of  that  somewhere — in  a  novel — lovers  caught  by  the 
tide." 

"  Yes,  I  daresay  you  have.  I  was  thinking  of  two 
lovers  who  were  so  overcome  with  happiness  that  they 
decided  that  they  would  not  trust  themselves  again  to  the 
waves  and  storms  of  life,  but  would  let  the  calm,  slow 
tide  of  death  take  them  away  with  all  their  happiness 
unassoiled." 


177 

Maggie  did  not  answer.  The  double  fear  had  come 
upon  her — first,  that  the  tide  might  rise  higher  than 
usual  and  cut  off  their  retreat.  Secondly,  that  Frank — 
he  was  a  poet — might  insist  on  remaining  there  and  being 
drowned.  Getting  up,  she  said :  "  I  do  not  know  what 
father  will  say  when  I  get  home,  really  it  is  quite  dark. 
Come,  Frank." 

"  Death  is  better  than  a  life  of  abomination — ^loss  of 
innocence,  and  of  delight  in  simple  things.  I  ask  you," 
he  said,  stopping  her  suddenly. 

"  Yes,  no  doubt  it  is  so ;  but  I  want  to  get  home.  Do 
go  on,  Frank." 

"  I  will  save  you  from  a  life  of  abomination — in  other 
words  I  will  save  you  from  him;  he  shall  not  get  you. 
I  have  sworn  it;  you  did  not  know  that  when  you  were 
lying  down  on  the  beach — you  had  ceased  speaking,  and 
in  the  silence  my  life  seemed  stirred  to  its  very  essence; 
and  I  knew  that  I  must  struggle  against  him,  and  con- 
quer. I  want  to  know  this:  Have  you  ever  thought  of 
what  your  life  would  be  with  him?  Have  you  ever 
thought  what  he  is .''  " 

"  But  you  don't  know  him,  Frank.  You  have  never 
spoken  to  him.     I  am  sure  you  misjudge  him." 

"  Do  you  think  I  cannot  see  what  he  is  ?  He  is  one 
of  those  men  whose  one  ambition  is  to  make  themselves 
friendly  in  a  house  where  there  are  women  to  wheedle. 
If  the  wife  is  young  he  will  strive  to  wheedle  her,  and 
though  he  may  not  succeed  he  must  degrade  her.  Or, 
if  she  have  daughters,  he  will  never  cease  to  appeal  to, 
to  work  upon,  to  excite  latent  feelings  which,  had  it  not 
been  for  him,  would  never  have  been  developed  into  base 
and  abnormal  desire.  I  know  what  the  foul-minded 
beast  is.  Such  men  as  he  ought  to  be  killed;  we  don't 
want  them  in  our  society.  I  want  to  save  you,  I  want  to 
give  you  a  noble,  a  pure  life,  full  of  the  charms  of  a 
husband's  influence,  a  home  where  there  would  be  love  of 


178 

natural  things.  You  are  capable  of  all  this,  Maggie, 
your  nature  is  a  pure  one,  but  your  life  is  unwholesome 
and  devoid  of  purity." 

"  Frank,  how  can  you  speak  so  ?  You  have  no  right  to 
say  such  things  about  us.  I  am  sure  you  have  always 
been  well  treated " 

"  You  do  not  understand  me,  I  will  explain  what  I 
mean.  Your  home  is  rich  and  luxurious,  but  you  are  not 
happy,  no  one  is  happy  in  idleness;  above  all  no  woman 
is  happy  without  love.  A  woman's  mission  in  life  is  to 
love,  she  must  have  her  home,  her  husband,  and  her  chil- 
dren. These  are  the  things  that  make  a  woman  happy; 
and  these  are  the  things  I  want  to  give  you — that  I  will 
give  you;  for,  listen  to  me,  I  swear  you  shall  not  have 
that  adventurer.  He  would  degrade  you  with  pleasure 
at  first,  and  afterwards  with  neglect.  You  are  too  good 
for  this,  Maggie — it  must  not  be,  it  shall  not  be.  As  I 
said  before,  death  would  be  better."  They  stood  in  front 
of  the  canal  locks  and  Maggie  looked  with  a  beating 
heart  on  the  deep  water  that  a  ray  from  a  crescent  moon 
faintly  indicated.  "  A  woman  is  helpless  until  she  finds 
her  lord,  he  who  shall  save,  the  saviour  who  shall  bring 
her  home  safe  to  the  fold.  He  exists !  and  all  are  in 
danger  till  they  find  him.  Some  miss  him — they  wander 
into  misery  and  ruin;  those  that  find  him  are  led  to  hap- 
piness and  content.  I  am  yours.  I  would  tell  you  how 
I  became  convinced  that  I  am  the  one  appointed  by  God 
to  lead  you  to  Him." 

"  I  thought  you  didn't  believe  in  God." 

"  Not  as  we  have  been  taught  to  understand  Him,  but 
I  believe  in  a  presiding  power — call  it  luck,  fate,  or  des- 
tiny that — that  exists  and  wills;  that  is  to  say,  watches 
over — rules  out  that  this  man  is  for  that  woman,  and 
ordains  that  he  shall  protect  her  from  danger,  shall  save 
her  from  those  that  seek  her  destruction.  Much  has 
happened  to  prove  that   I   was  intended  for  you.     We 


179 

have  known  each  other  since  we  were  children.  Do  you 
not  remember  when  I  kissed  you  in  the  verandah  as  I 
was  going  to  school?  I  was  the  first  man  who  kissed 
you,  you  were  the  first  woman  who  kissed  me — ^have  you 
never  felt  that  we  were  for  each  other?  Nor  can  I  for- 
get that  when  I  thought  we  had  drifted  for  ever  apart, 
that  I  was  brought  back.  Do  you  think  it  was  accident 
— blind  chance?  I  don't.  Now  I  see  this  man  striving 
to  win  you,  and  whether  it  be  for  your  money,  whether 
it  be  for  yourself,  or  for  both,  it  is  my  duty  to  say:  No, 
this  must  not  be." 

"  I  think  you  are  mistaken  about  Charley.  I  admit 
that  a  man  is  often  a  better  judge  than  a  girl;  and  as 
for  you,  Frank,  I  am  sure  I  am  very  fond  of  you.  It  is 
very  good  of  you  to  take  such  interest  in  me — but  we 
must  get  home.     I  don't  know  what  father  will  think." 

**  No,  before  you  go  a  step  further  you  must  promise 
me  not  to  see  that  man  again.  I  cannot  tell  you  how, 
but  I  know  no  good  can  come  of  it.  He  is  one  of  those 
creatures  who  cannot  love,  and  only  care  for  women  for 
the  excitement  they  afford.  I  know  what  sort  of  brute 
he  is.  It  is  more  depraving  to  walk  alone  with  him,  than 
to  be  the  mistress  of  a  man  who  loved  you." 

"  He  is  leaving  Brighton  in  a  few  days." 

"  So  much  the  better  for  all  of  us.  But  you  must 
promise  me.  I  would  sooner  see  you  lying  drowned  in 
that  lock  than  his  wife." 

Maggie  trembled.  It  was  ridiculous  to  think  of  such 
a  thing.  Surely  he  did  not  mean  to  drown  her  if  she 
refused  to  promise.  Charley  was  going  to  London  in  a 
few  days;  he  would  be  away  for  three  or  four  months. 
Heaven  only  knows  what  would  happen  in  that  time. 
She  didn't  see  what  right  Frank  had  to  bully  her — to 
extort  promises  from  her  by  night  on  the  edge  of  a  dan- 
gerous lock.  But  a  promise  wasn't  much,  and  a  promise 
given  in  such  circumstances  was  not  a  promise  at  all. 


180 

"  If  you  are  really  in  earnest — if  you  think  it  is  for 
my  good,  I'll  promise  you  not  to  see  him  again." 

"  O  Maggie,  if  you  only  knew  what  a  load  of  trouble 
you  have  taken  off  my  mind !  Thank  you — give  me  your 
hand,  and  let  me  thank  you.  I  know  I  am  right.  And 
now,  tell  me,  can  you  love  me?     Will  you  marry  me?  " 

"I  will  promise  nothing  more  to-night;  we  shall  see 
how  you  behave  yourself,"  the  girl  replied  winningly. 
"  And  now  go  on,  sir,  we  have  been  here  quite  long 
enough." 

He  crossed  the  gate  mechanically,  she  followed  eagerly, 
and  when  she  reached  the  other  side  her  heart  beat  with 
pride  at  her  pretty  triumph.  Now  I'll  twit  him,  she 
thought,  as  they  ascended  the  shore  and  entered  the  town. 

"  I  wonder  why  you  think  Charley  so  wicked;  I  think 
if  you  knew  him  you  would  change  your  opinion." 

"  I  am  very  thankful  indeed  that  I  do  not  know  him." 

The  conversation  dropped,  but  a  moment  after  he  gave 
her  the  chance  she  wanted. 

"  Mind  you  have  promised  me  not  to  see  him  again. 
I  trust  you." 

"  But  suppose  he  calls  and  if  I  should  be  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, I  cannot  walk  out  of  the  room  without  speaking 
to  him." 

"  I  think  you  had  better  write  and  say  you  do  not  wish 
to  see  him." 

"  I  couldn't  do  that;  we  have  known  him  a  long  time, 
and  father  has  always  said  that  we  must  be  rude  to  no 
one.     Besides,  what  reason  could  I  give?  " 

"  You  need  not  give  a  reason.  But  let  that  pass.  I 
can't  see  why  you  should  meet;  you  can  surely  tell  your 
servant  to  say  *  Not  at  home,'  when  he  calls." 

"  I  might  be  in  the  garden — Sally  would  not  allow  it. 
If  John  said  '  Not  at  home,'  she  would  run  down  and  let 
him  in." 


181 

"  I  see  you  are  raising  difficulties — I  see  you  do  not 
intend  to  keep  your  promise." 

"  You  have  been  quite  rude  enough  for  one  evening. 
You  have  kept  me  out  on  the  beach  by  force  till  nearly 
ten  o'clock  at  night,  and  you  said  that  my  life  at  the 
Manor  House  was  not  a  pure  one — I  don't  know  what  you 
mean.     No  man  ever  spoke  to  me  like  that  before." 

"  You  misunderstood  me.  If  you  knew  how  I  loved 
you,  you  would  not  twit  me  with  my  own  words. 
Heaven  knows  I  would  sooner  go  back  and  drown  myself 
in  the  lock  than  do  anything  or  say  anything  that  would 
offend  you.  Remember  also  that  I  asked  you  to  be  my 
wife." 

"  You  are  not  the  first.  I  daresay  it  may  appear 
strange  to  you,  but  others  have  asked  me  the  same  ques- 
tion before." 

"  It  does  not  seem  strange  to  me,  it  only  seems  strange 
to  me  that  every  one  doesn't  love  you,  but  I  daresay  they 
do.  O  Maggie,  remember  that  you  gave  me  hope,  you 
said  that  you  might " 

"  Did  I  ?  Well,  it's  too  late  to  talk  any  more.  Good- 
night.    I  suppose  you're  not  coming  in?  " 

She  left  him  in  a  cruel  dispersal  of  hope.  He  avoided, 
and  then  he  tenderly  solicited  a  regret  that  he  had  not 
thrown  her  into  the  lock.  To  end  on  that  hour  by  the 
sea  would  have  been  been  better  than  the  trivial  and 
wretched  conclusion  of  a  broken  promise,  and  every- 
thing, even  murder,  were  better  than  that  a  brute  should 
have  her  woman's  innocence  to  sully  and  destroy.  His 
love  for  the  woman  disappeared  in  his  desire  to  save, 
the  idea  which  she  represented  at  that  moment;  and  lost 
in  sentiment  he  stood  watching  the  white  sickle  of  the 
moon  over  against  the  dim  village.  The  leaves  of  some 
pollarded  willows  whitened  when  the  breeze  shot  them 
up  to  the  light,  and  a  moment  after  became  quite  distinct 
in  the  glare  and  the  steam  of  an  approaching  engine. 


182 

He  might  go  and  tell  Willy  all  about  it;  he  would  ask 
him  to  interfere — could  he  catch  that  train?  If  he  ran 
for  it,  yes.  He  ran  full  tilt  across  the  green  under  the 
archway  up  the  high  stone  steps.     He  just  did  it. 

It  was  the  last  train;  he  would  sleep  in  Brighton. 
His  plan,  so  far  as  he  had  a  definite  plan,  was  to  ask 
Willy  to  come  with  him  and  tell  "  that  brute  "  that  his 
visits  to  the  Manor  House  must  end,  and  request  him  to 
pay  his  sister  no  further  attentions.  His  other  plans 
were — Willy  must  speak  to  Maggie  and  tell  her  all  he 
knew  of  the  man;  Willy  must  speak  to  his  father;  Mr. 
Brookes  must  not  be  kept  in  ignorance.  But  of  course 
the  right  thing  to  do  would  be  for  Willy  and  him  to  call 
at  the  brute's  hotel,  tell  him  what  they  thought,  and  give 
him  a  licking.  The  train  jogged  on,  and  Frank  made 
plan  after  plan.  It  was  now  past  eleven,  and  he  would 
not  be  at  East  Street  before  twelve  o'clock.  As  he  hur- 
ried along  the  streets  he  doubted  more  than  ever  how 
Willy  would  receive  him.  He  might  just  as  well  have 
waited  till  morning.  However,  it  was  too  late  now  to 
think  of  going  back,  there  was  no  train,  and  he  rapped 
at  first  timidly  and  then  noisily  at  the  shop  door.  He 
had  to  wait  some  time,  and  then  he  heard  a  voice  asking 
from  the  top  windows  who  was  there. 

"  'Tis  I,  Frank ;  awfully  sorry,  but  must  see  you — par- 
ticular business." 

There  was  no  answer;  he  heard  the  voice  grumbling, 
and  more  than  ever  doubtful  of  the  cordiality  of  his 
reception,  he  listened.     The  door  opened. 

"Who  is  it.>"  he  said. 

"  'Tis  I,  Cissy;  but  I'm  in  my  nightdress." 

"  I  won't  look  at  you.  Cissy,  if  that's  what  you  mean. 
But  won't  you  give  me  a  kiss  ?  " 

"  Stoop  down,  then." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  waking  you  up,  Cissy." 

"  Never  mind,  I'd  get  up  at  any  hour  to  see  you." 


188 

"  There,  run  upstairs,  and  take  care  you  don't  catch 
cold,  or  I  shall  never  hear  the  end  of  it." 

"  Father  is  in  bed  with  mother.  He  says  you  are  to 
go  up,  for  if  he  were  to  get  out  of  bed  it  might  give  him 
cold.     You  know  his  room?  " 

"  Yes,  here  it  is,  now  run  along." 

"Come  in." 

Frank  was  a  little  shocked,  and  he  waited  stupidly  on 
the  threshold.  He  could  see  a  fragment  of  Mrs. 
Brookes's  profile,  and  beneath  the  clothes  the  outline  of 
Willy's  bony  body. 

"  Come  in,  come  in,"  he  said,  "  don't  stand  there  filling 
the  room  with  cold  air.  Now,  what  is  it?  Why  the 
deuce  do  you  come  here  waking  us  up  at  this  ungodly 
hour  ?     What  has  happened  ?  " 

"  I  have  proposed  to  your  sister  Maggie." 

"  I  am  sure  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,  old  chap ;  but 
I  can't  help  thinking  that  I  could  have  congratulated 
you  equally  as  well,  if  not  better,  in  the  morning."  Then, 
noticing  the  distressed  look  in  Frank's  face,  he  said: 
"  I  hope  she  has  not  refused  you." 

"  No;  she  asked  me  to  wait,  she  said  it  would 
depend " 

"  Then  you  may  depend  it  is  all  right;  now  go  away 
and  let  me  go  to  sleep,  we'll  talk  about  it  in  the  morn- 
ing. You  can't  go  back  to-night.  You  are  sleeping  in 
Brighton,  I  suppose  ?     You'll  come  and  breakfast  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  with  pleasure,  but  it  wasn't  exactly  to  tell  that 
I  had  proposed  to  Maggie  that  I  came  here  to-night; 
there  is  something  more  than  that.  You  know  that  fellow 
she  calls  Charley?     I  don't  know  his  other  name." 

"Stracey?" 

"  I  daresay.  I  mean  the  man  you  said  you  hated 
more  than  any  man  alive;  I  hate  him,  too." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  she  is  still  thinking  of  that 
fellow.     Has  he  come  back?  " 


184 

"  He  was  at  the  Manor  House  all  day  yesterday." 
"  If  she  marries  that  fellow  I'll  never  speak  to  her 
again^  it  will  be  dead  cuts." 

"  It  is  only  natural  that  I  should  love  Maggie.  You 
remember  the  first  day  I  came  down  to  the  Manor  House  ? 
How  young  I  was  then — how  young  we  all  were;  there 
are  no  days  like  the  old  days !  There  is  a  beautiful 
poem  by  Wordsworth;  I  only  remember  one  line  now — 

"  '  When  every  day  was  long 
As  twenty  days  are  now' — 

Do  you  remember  the  poem  ?  "  Willy  did  not  answer, 
and  noticing  that  his  eyes  were  blinking,  Frank  hastily 
returned  to  more  recent  events.  "  I  wrote  to  her  this 
afternoon  telling  her  how  much  I  loved  her,  and  I  said 
that  I  would  call  about  nine  in  the  evening  at  the  Manor 
House,  and  that  I  hoped  to  find  her  in  the  drawing-room 
where  we  could  talk  without  being  disturbed.  However, 
I  was  too  excited,  and  could  not  hold  out  till  nine;  I 
thought  I  had  better  hear  my  fate  at  once,  and  as  I  was 
walking  across  the  field — you  know,  at  the  back  of  Mrs. 
Heald's — I  met  her  half  way.  She  had  a  letter  in  her 
hand,  which  she  said  she  was  going  to  leave  at  Mrs. 
Heald's  for  me.  She  admitted  that  the  letter  was  in 
point  of  fact  a  refusal,  and  when  I  questioned  her  she 
admitted  that  she  was  obliged  to  refuse  me  because  she 
had  half  promised  Charley.  We  went  for  a  walk  on  the 
beach,  we  sat  on  the  beach  and  watched  the  sunset,  and 
I  told  her  all.  I  spoke  to  her  about  the  past,  how  we 
had  grown  up  together — how  we  had  been,  as  it  were, 
from  the  first  fated  for  each  other;  for  you  must  admit, 
Willy,  that  it  is  very  curious — I  don't  know  if  you  ever 
think  of  it,  but  I  do — how  we  have  met  again  even  when 
the  chances  of  life  seemed  to  have  put  us  for  ever  apart." 
Here  a  slight  sound  warned  Frank  that  the  present  mo- 
ment   was    one    as    equally    unfitted    for    psychological 


185 

analysis  as  for  poetry,  and  he  hurried  to  his  story,  hoping 
that  the  incident  of  the  lock  would  secure  him  attention. 
"  Willy,  I  think  I  convinced  her  that  I  liked  her  better 
than  that  other  fellow.  We  were  standing  by  the  lock — 
Willy,  I  really  do  think  you  might  listen." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  am  listening.  You  were  both  look- 
ing at  the  simset." 

"  It  really  is  too  bad.  Of  course,  if  you  don't  want 
to  hear,  and  would  prefer  to  go  to  sleep,  you  have  only 
to  say  so." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  assure  you,  I  wasn't  asleep.  I 
only  closed  my  eyes  because  I  can't  bear  the  glare  of 
that  candle.  I  know  where  you  were — you  were  looking 
at  the  sunset." 

"  No,  we  weren't." 

"  Weren't  they,  Jessie  }     Are  you  asleep  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  not  asleep.  Do  hold  your  tongue,  Willy, 
I  want  to  hear  the  story.  You  were  standing  by  the 
lock,  Mr.  Escott." 

"  Ah,  yes,  so  they  were." 

"  I  felt  it  was  my  duty,  so  I  told  her  that  I  felt  it 
was  my  mission  to  save — to  save  her  from  that  man — 
and  I  made  her  promise  me  not  to  see  him  again." 

"  Then  it  is  all  right.  Nobody  can  be  more  glad  than 
I  am.     I  hate  the  fellow." 

"  She  will  not  keep  her  promise.  Of  course  she  may 
only  have  done  it  to  tease  me ;  but  as  we  were  going  home 
she  said  she  could  not  walk  out  of  the  room  if  she  hap- 
pened to  be  there  when  he  called,  nor  could  she  leave 
word  with  the  servants  to  say  that  they  were  not  at  home. 
She  made  a  lot  of  excuses.  What  are  you  laughing  at, 
Mrs.  Brookes .''  " 

"  I  am  really  very  sorry,  Mr.  Escott,  but  I  couldn't 
help  wondering  if  she  would  change  her  mind  again  if 
you  were  to  go  back  to  the  lock." 

Frank  took  up  the  candle  and  turned  to  go. 


186 

'*  Don't  go,"  Willy  murmured  faintly. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Mr.  Escott — if  circumstances  per- 
mitted, I  would  do  all  I  could  to  help  you." 

This  was  delicate  ground,  and  Willy  woke  up. 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  Have  you  anything 
to  suggest }  " 

"  Yes,  it  struck  me  that  we  might  both  go  roimd  to  the 
fellow's  hotel — Stracey,  you  call  him,  I  think — and  you 
might  tell  him  that  his  visits  must  cease  at  the  Manor 
House,  and  that  he  must  not  speak  to  your  sister  if  he 
should  happen  to  meet  her.  That  should  bring  the  mat- 
ter to  an  end.  He  is  in  Brighton — he  is  staying  at  the 
*  Grand.'     We  might  go  round  there  to-morrow  morning." 

"  He  might  kick  us  out." 

"  I  only  hope  he  may  try.  I  would  give  him  such  a 
hammering.  But  you  need  not  be  afraid  of  that.  It 
wouldn't  do  to  have  Maggie's  name  mentioned  in  con- 
nection with  a  vulgar  brawl — people  are  not  too  chari- 
table. My  idea  is  that  this  business  should  be  conducted 
in  the  quietest  and  most  gentlemanly  manner  possible." 

"  I  think  I  had  better  speak  to  father  first." 

"  No  necessity;  he  will  be  only  too  glad  to  get  rid  of 
the  penniless  brute.     Don't  you  think  so,  Mrs.  Brookes  ?  " 

"  I  do." 

Then  they  spoke  of  other  things — of  the  shop,  the 
profit  they  had  made  on  tomatoes,  and  the  losses  that 
had  resulted  from  over-stocking  themselves  with  flour. 
At  last  a  loud  snore  brought  the  conversation  to  a  full 
stop,  and  Frank  hurriedly  bade  them  good-night. 

"  Cissy  will  let  you  out,"  said  Willy,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief. 

The  little  girl  had  pulled  on  her  stockings  and  tied  a 
petticoat  round  her  waist.  "  So  you  are  going  to  be 
married." 

"  O  Cissy,  you  have  been  listening !  " 


187 

"  Is  she  very  nice?  She  must  be  very  nice  for  you  to 
marry  her.     I  should  like  to  marry  you." 

"  Would  you,  Cissy,  and  why  ?  " 

"  Oh,  because  you  are  so  very  handsome.  But  you 
will  come  and  see  us  all  the  same,  and  let  me  sit  on  your 
knee.''  " 

"  Of  course  I  will.  Cissy,  and  now  good-night." 

Next  morning  Willy  declared  himself  ready  to  go  and 
see  Mr.  Charles  Stracey,  and  to  tell  him  that  he  was  not 
to  call  any  more  at  the  Manor  House,  or  speak  to  Miss 
Brookes  if  he  should  happen  to  meet  her.  Frank  won- 
dered if  this  decision  was  owing  to  Mrs.  Brookes's 
influence. 

"  I  slept  last  night  at  the  *  Grand.'  It  seemed  odd 
sleeping  in  the  same  house — perhaps  within  a  few  doors 
of  him.  If  you  only  knew  how  I  love  her,  if  I  could 
only  tell  you,  you  would  pity  me.  You  ought  to  know 
what  I  feel — the  anxiety,  the  heart-ache.  I  know  you 
have  gone  through  it  all." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  know  what  it  is,"  Willy  replied 
thoughtfully. 

"  Mr.  Stracey  is  staying  here }  " 

"  Will  you  enquire  at  the  office,  sir }  " 

While  the  books  were  being  searched  the  young  men 
consulted  together.  Frank  said :  "  Send  up  your  card, 
and  say  you  will  be  glad  to  speak  to  him  on  a  matter 
of  importance.  Of  course  he  will  see  you,  but  before 
you  speak  about  Maggie  you  must  apologise  for  my 
presence;  you  must  say  that  I  am  a  very  particular 
friend,  and  that  you  thought  it  better  that  the  interview 
should  take  place  in  the  presence  of  a  witness." 

"  I  wish  it  were  all  over.  I  wouldn't  do  what  I  am 
doing  for  any  one  else,  I  can  tell  you,  Frank." 

"  Mr.  Stracey  is  in  the  hotel,  sir." 

"  Will  you  give  him  my  card,  and  say  I  should  be  glad 
to  speak  to  him  on  a  matter  of  importance?  " 


188 

"  Very  good,  sir." 

(In  an  undertone  to  Frank),  "  Was  that  right?  " 

"  Quite  right." 

"  Oh,  one  thing  I  had  forgotten  to  ask  you — am  I  to 
shake  hands  with  him?  " 

"  You  mean  if  he  offers  you  his  hand  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  It  is  impossible  to  settle  everything  beforehand. 
One  must  act  according  as  the  occasion  requires." 

"  That's  all  very  well  for  you,  but  I  am  a  slow  man, 
and  am  lost  if  I  don't  arrange  beforehand." 

"  Pretend  not  to  see  his  hand,  and  apologise  for  my 
presence;  he  will  then  see  that  we  mean  business." 

"  The  waiting  is  the  worst  part." 

"  Will  you  walk  this  way,  sir  ?  "  said  the  page  boy. 
"  Mr.  Stracey  is  not  out  of  bed  yet,  but  he  said  if  you 
wouldn't  mind,  sir." 

They  shrank  from  their  enterprise  instinctively,  but 
the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  they  saw  a  bath,  and  a 
sponge,  and  a  towel,  and  Mr.  Stracey  lying  on  his  back 
reading  The  Sporting  Times.  He  extended  a  long 
brawny  arm.  The  strength  of  the  arm  fixed  itself  on 
Willy's  mind,  and  he  doubted  if  he  had  not  better  take  the 
proffered  hand. 

"  I  brought  my  friend  Mr.  Escott  with  me,  for  I 
thought  a  witness — I  mean,  that  this  interview  should 
be  conducted  in  the  presence,  of  a  third  party." 

At  this  speech  Charley  opened  his  eyes  and  dropped 
his  paper.  Willy  leaned  over  the  rail  of  the  bed;  Frank 
looked  into  the  bath,  but  remembering  himself  suddenly, 
he  examined  the  chest  of  drawers. 

"  I  have  come  to  speak  to  you  about  my  sister." 

Charley  changed  countenance,  and  both  men  noticed 
the  change. 

"  I  mean  to  say  I  have  come  to  tell  you  that  you  must 
discontinue  your  visits  to  the  Manor  House,  and  I  must 


189 

beg  of  you  not  to  address  my  sisters  should  you  meet 
them." 

"  May  I  ask  if  you  are  your  father's  representative,  if 
you  speak  with  his  authority?  " 

"  I  do  not.     I " 

"  Then  I  should  like  to  know  on  what  authority  you 
forbid  me  a  house  that  doesn't  belong  to  you,  and  I 
should  like  to  know,  if  your  father  doesn't  disapprove  of 
my  knowing  your  sisters,  why  you  should  ?  I  shall  speak 
to  Miss  Brookes  as  long  as  she  cares  to  speak  to  me. 
The  very  idea  of  a  man  like  you  coming  here  to  bully 
me!     You  have  got  my  answer." 

"  If,  after  this  warning,"  said  Frank,  who,  seeing  that 
things  were  going  against  them,  thought  he  had  better 
interfere,  "  you  speak  to  Miss  Brookes,  you  will  do  so 
at  your  peril." 

"  Peril !    What  do  you  mean.''  " 

"  I  mean  that  you  must  be  prepared  to  take  the  con- 
sequences." 

"  Who  are  you  ?  I  should  like  to  know  what  you  have 
to  do  in  this  matter?  " 

"  I  speak  as  Miss  Brookes's  future  husband." 

"  Future  husband  be  damned !  She'll  never  marry 
you,"  said  Charley,  springing  out  of  bed. 

Frank  threw  himself  on  his  guard,  and  they  would 
have  struck  each  other  if  Willy  had  not  cried  out: 
"  Frank,  remember  you  promised  me  there  must  be  no 
scandal." 

"  I  had  almost  forgotten.  For  Miss  Brookes's  sake, 
I  refrain.  Do  you  also,  for  her  sake,  cease  to  provoke 
me." 

Charley  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  rushing  to  the 
door,  he  said:  "  I,  too,  for  Miss  Brookes's  sake,  refrain, 
and  I  give  you  three  seconds  to  clear  out." 

In  attempting  to  carry  out  the  injunction  Willy  nearly 
fell  in  the  bath.     Frank  had  to  bite  his  lip  to  avoid  a 


190 

smile^  and  he  stalked  out  of  the  room  assuming  his  most 
arrogant  air. 

"  I  think,  on  the  whole,  we  got  the  best  of  it/'  he  said 
as  they  went  downstairs. 

"  Do  you  ?     He  turned  us  out  of  his  room !  " 

"  That's  the  worst  of  tackling  a  man  in  his  own  room 
— if  he  tells  you  to  go,  and  you  don't  go,  he  can  ring  for 
the  servants." 

"  I  was  as  nearly  as  possible  going  into  the  bath." 

"  Yes,  a  touch  more  and  down  you'd  have  gone." 
Frank  laughed,  and  Willy  laughed,  "  and  that  fellow  in 
his  nightshirt  fishing  you  out !  " 

"  Oh,  don't,  don't " 

Frank  asked  Willy  to  lunch  with  him  at  Mutton's,  and 
he  ordered  a  bottle  of  champagne  in  honour  of  the  day. 

"  I  say,  just  fancy  pulling  you  out  of  the  bath,  and 
wiping  you  with  a  towel.     I  can  see  you  dripping !  " 

"  Don't  set  me  off  again.     Let  me  enjoy  my  cutlets." 

"  By  Jove !  there's  something  I  hadn't  thought  of." 

"What's  that?" 

"  We  must  be  off.  We  must  tell  Maggie  what  has 
happened  before  he  has  time  to  communicate  with  her. 
When  is  the  next  train  to  Southwick?  " 

"  There's  one  at  half-past  one." 

"  It  was  after  twelve  when  we  saw  him,  he  won't  have 
time  to  catch  that.  We  must  be  off.  Waiter,  the  bill, 
and  be  quick.  Look  sharp,  Willy,  finish  the  bottle,  pity 
to  waste  it." 

"  What  a  nuisance  women  are,  to  be  sure.  Just  as  I 
was  enjoying  my  cutlet!  I  can't  walk  fast  in  this 
weather,  I  should  make  myself  ill." 

"  We  must  take  a  cab." 

"  What  a  fellow  you  are,  you  never  think  of  the  ex- 
pense. I  don't  know  where  I  shoidd  be  if  I  were  as 
reckless  as  you  are." 

"  Supposing  he  were  at  the  station.     It  would  be  rather 


191 

a  sell  if  we  went  down  by  the  same  train !  What  should 
we  do?  He  would  surely  never  attempt  to  force  his 
way  in !  " 

"  I  don't  think  he  would  attempt  that.  If  he  did,  we 
should  have  to  send  for  the  police." 

The  young  men  strove  to  decide  how  the  news  should 
be  broken  to  Maggie.  But  they  had  arranged  nothing 
before  they  arrived  at  Southwick,  and  Frank  stopped 
Willy  time  after  time  by  the  footpath,  until  at  last  in 
despair  the  latter  said :  "  We  must  make  haste ;  there's 
another  train  in  twenty  minutes." 

"  By  Jove !  I  had  not  thought  of  that ;  we  must  get  on. 
Well,  then,  it  is  all  arranged.  You  must  tell  her  that 
you  thought  it  your  duty.  Put  it  all  down  to  duty,  and 
it  was  your  duty  to  do  what  you  did — putting  entirely 
out  of  the  question  the  service  you  did  me." 

"  I  can  tell  you  what,  Frank,  I  am  very  sorry  I  ever 
meddled  in  the  matter.  Had  I  known  the  vexation  and 
annoyance  it  would  have  caused — and  mark  my  words, 
and  see  if  they  don't  come  true,  we  are  only  commencing 
the  annoyances  that  the  affair  will  cause  us.  Ah,  had  I 
only  foreseen !  What  a  fool  I  was ;  I  ought  to  have  known 
better;  I  have  had  nothing  but  bad  luck  all  my  life.  It 
is  perfectly  wonderful  the  bad  luck  I  have  had;  no  mat- 
ter what  I  did,  nothing  seemed  to  go  right.  I  daresay 
if  you  had  gone  to  see  that  fellow  without  me  it  would 
have  turned  out  differently.  But  I  don't  see  how  I  am 
to  tell  my  sister  point  blank  that  I  have  forbidden  him 
the  house.  What  will  she  say?  She  may  fly  at  me. 
Women  have  queer  tempers,  particularly  when  you  inter- 
fere with  their  young  men.  My  sisters  have  the  very  worst 
of  tempers;  you  don't  know  them  as  I  do.  Fortunately 
it  is  not  Sally.  I  assure  you  I  wouldn't  face  Sally  with 
such  news  for  all  the  money  you  could  give  me." 

"  I   am  very   sorry,  old  chap,  but  we  must  now  go 


192 

through  it.  You  must  forbid  her  to  communicate  with 
him." 

"  She  won't  heed  what  I  say.  It  will  only  excite  her. 
She  wUl  fly  at  me,  and  call  me  names,  and  burst  into 
tears.  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  she  went  off  her  head 
— she  has  been  very  strange  once  before.  I  don't  mean 
to  say  she  was  ever  wrong  in  her  head,  but  she  is  a 
nervous,  excitable  girl — most  excitable ;  my  sisters  are  the 
most  excitable  girls  I  have  ever  known." 

It  was  surprisingly  soon  over.  Willy  had  not  spoken 
a  dozen  words,  when  he  was  interrupted. 

"  You  mean  to  say  you  have  been  to  call  on  him }  " 

"  Yes ;  and  we  told  him  he  was  never  to  speak  to  you 
again." 

Frank  expected  her  eyes  to  flash  fire,  but  he  only 
noticed  a  slight  change  in  her  face,  a  movement  of  the 
muscles  of  the  lower  jaw. 

"  Then  I  will  speak  to  neither  of  you  again !  "  and 
she  walked  out  of  the  room,  and  in  dismay  they  listened 
to  her  going  upstairs. 

"  She  didn't  fly  at  me,"  said  Willy ;  and,  looking  a 
little  terrified,  he  stroked  his  moustache  softly.  "  I  told 
you  she  would  give  no  heed  to  what  we  said;  nor  do  I 
see  how  we  can  prevent  her  seeing  that  fellow  if  she 
chooses.  He  cannot  come  into  the  house,  it  is  true,  but 
she  can  go  out  when  she  pleases." 

"  We  must  follow  her." 

Conscious  of  defeat,  WUly  desired  compromise.  He 
could  not  be  induced  to  take  a  share  of  watching  and 
following  which  Frank  declared  essential;  and,  dreading 
an  encounter  with  Stracey,  whose  brawny  arm  it  was 
impossible  to  forget,  he  shut  himself  up  in  the  shop,  and 
devoted  himself  to  drawing  up  a  most  elaborate  balance- 
sheet,  showing  how  he  would  stand  if  he  were  obliged  to 
close  the  business  to-morrow,  whereas  Frank  loitered 
about  the  roads,  till  Mrs.  Horlock  came  along  with  her 


193 

dogS;  and  engaged  him  in  conversation;  and  no  matter 
at  what  corner  he  stationed  himself,  he  fomid  he  was  not 
free  from  observation.  A  few  days  after  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  return  to  his  post,  and  contented  him- 
self with  looking  out  of  his  window,  and  taking  an  occa- 
sional stroll  by  the  embankment,  when  he  saw  a  train 
signalled. 

A  great  weight  seemed  lifted  from  his  shoulder  the 
day  he  heard  that  his  rival's  holiday  had  come  to  an  end, 
and  that  he  had  been  forced  to  return  to  his  counting- 
house  in  London.  True  it  is  that  Mr.  Brookes  had  in 
a  certain  measure  approved  of  Willy's  action  in  forbid- 
ding young  Stracey  the  Manor  House,  and  therefore  of 
his,  Frank  Escott's,  suit,  but  neither  of  these  gains  com- 
pensated him  for  the  crowning  loss  of  not  being  able  to 
see  his  beloved,  for  although  the  Manor  House  was  still 
theoretically  open  to  him,  practically  it  was  closed.  The 
sisters,  although  at  variance  on  all  subjects,  had  xmited 
in  condemning  him  and  Willy,  and  during  one  dinner,  the 
misery  of  which  he  declared  he  could  never  forget,  they 
had  sat  whispering  together,  refusing  to  address  him 
either  by  look  or  word.  Willy  took  all  this  calmly.  It 
is  an  ill  wind  that  blows  no  good,  and  the  silence  enabled 
him  to  thoroughly  masticate  his  food.  Mr.  Brookes  wept 
a  little,  and  laughed  a  little,  and  reminded  them  of  the 
oblivion  that  awaited  all  their  little  quarrels. 

All  this,  like  much  else  in  life,  was  ridiculous  enough; 
but  because  we  are  ridiculous,  it  does  not  follow  that  we 
do  not  suffer,  and  Frank  suffered.  He  was  five-and- 
twenty,  and  light  love  had  him  fairly  by  the  throat;  he 
winced,  and  he  cried  out,  but  very  soon  his  dignity  gave 
way,  and  he  craved  forgiveness.  But  Maggie  passed 
without  heeding  him.  For  more  than  a  week  she  resisted 
all  his  appeals,  and  it  was  not  until  she  saw  that  she  was 
taking  the  neighbourhood  into  her  confidence,  and  to 
feel  that  if  she  did  not  relent  a  little  he  might  leave 


194 

Southwick,  and  not  return,  she  answered  him  with  a 
monosyllable.  With  what  bliss  did  he  hear  that  first 
"  no,"  and  how  passionately  he  pleaded  for  a  few  words ; 
it  did  not  seem  to  matter  what  they  were,  so  long  as  he 
heard  her  speak  one  whole  sentence  to  him.  Feeling  her 
power,  she  was  shy  of  yielding,  and  with  every  conces- 
sion she  drew  him  further  into  the  meshes  of  love.  He 
dined  now  nearly  every  day  at  the  Manor  House,  and  he 
spent  an  hour,  sometimes  two,  with  her  in  the  morning 
or  afternoon;  he  followed  her  from  greenhouse  to  green- 
house, but  all  his  efforts  were  in  vain,  and  he  failed  not 
only  to  obtain  her  promise  to  marry  him,  but  even  a 
renewal  of  the  feeble  and  partial  hopes  which  she  had 
given  him  that  night  on  the  beach.  He  prayed,  he  wept, 
he  implored  pity,  he  openly  spoke  of  suicide,  and  he 
hinted  at  murder.  But  Maggie  passed  him,  pushing  him 
out  of  the  way  with  the  watering-pot,  threatening  to  water 
him  too,  until  one  day  he  drew  a  revolver.  She  screamed, 
and  the  revolver  was  put  away,  but  on  the  next  occasion 
a  stiletto  that  he  had  brought  from  Italy  was  produced, 
and  with  a  great  deal  of  earnestness  life  was  declared  to 
be  a  miserable  thing.  It  was  absurd,  no  doubt,  but  at 
the  same  time  it  was  not  a  little  pathetic;  he  was  so  good- 
looking,  and  so  sincere.  Maggie  put  down  the  watering- 
pot,  and  she  would  probably  have  allowed  him  to  take 
her  hand  and  kiss  her,  if  he  had  not  spoken  roughly 
about  Charley,  and  called  her  conduct  into  question.  So 
she  told  him  she  would  not  speak  to  him  again,  and  she 
continued  watering  the  flowers  in  silence.  Amid  vague 
remembrances  of  murders  she  had  read  of,  Frank's  words 
and  behaviour  remained  present  in  her  mind,  and  that 
evening  when  Willy,  who  rarely  took  the  trouble  to  speak, 
much  less  to  advise  his  sisters,  told  her  that  she  might 
never  get  such  a  chance  again,  she  said :  "  I  am  not 
going  to  marry  a  madman  to  please  your  vanity." 
"  Marry  a  madman !     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 


195 

"  Well,  I  call  a  man  that  who  comes  regularly  to  see 
a  girl  with  a  revolver  in  one  pocket  and  a  stiletto  in  the 
other,  and  threatens  to  leave  himself  wallowing  in  a  pool 
of  blood  at  her  feet " 

"  You  mean  to  say  he  does  that  ?  You  are  clearly 
determined  to  drive  the  poor  fellow  out  of  his  mind  with 
your  infernal  coquetry.  Well,  women  are  the  most 
troublesome,  and  I  believe  in  many  cases,  the  wickedest 
creatures  on  the  face  of  God's  earth." 

"  You  shut  up.     Men  who  don't  get  on  with  women 

always  abuse  them;  you  are  soured  since  Miss  ,  the 

actress,  jilted  you." 

"  If  you  ever  dare  mention  that  subject,  I  will  never 
speak  to  you  again.     You  know  I  don't  break  my  word." 

"  Why  do  you  interfere  in  my  affairs  ?  You  don't  think 
of  me  when  you  go  down  to  browbeat  Charley  Stracey; 
you  don't  think  of  what  would  have  been  said  of  me  had 
Frank  hit  him,  and  it  had  all  come  out  in  the  papers." 
Maggie  said  no  more;  she  saw  she  had  gone  too  far. 
Willy  sat  puffing  at  his  pipe ;  but  when  her  father  spoke  of 
a  certain  investment  that  had  not  turned  out  as  well  as 
he  had  anticipated,  he  joined  in  the  conversation,  and 
she  hoped  her  cruelty  was  forgotten. 


CHAP.  XII. 

FRANK  uttered  a  cry  of  surprise  when  he  opened  the 
studio  door  to  his  friend.  It  was  his  favourite  complaint 
that  Willy  never  came  to  see  him. 

"At  last,  at  last!  This  is  the  second  time  you  have 
been  in  the  place  since  it  was  finished,  faithless  friend !  " 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you  know  it  is  not  my  fault.  I  have 
been  very  busy  lately  trying  to  get  on  with  my  accounts. 
There's  not  a  room  in  the  Manor  House  where  I  can 
work  in;   my  sisters'  things  are  everywhere,  and  they 


196 

must  not  be  interfered  with — their  ball-dresses,  their 
birds,  their  work.  My  sisters  think  of  nothing  but 
pleasure." 

"  Triss,  go  back,  go  to  your  chair,  sir;  I'll  get  the 
whip." 

Showing  his  fangs,  the  bull-dog  retired;  then  with  a 
hideous  growl  sprang  upon  his  chair,  and  sat  eyeing 
Willy's  calves. 

"  I  cannot  think  what  pleasure  it  can  give  you  to  keep 
such  a  brute.  Even  if  I  had  my  accounts  finished,  I 
don't  think  I  should  care  to  come  here  much.  It  isn't 
safe." 

"  You  are  quite  mistaken.  There's  not  a  better-tem- 
pered dog  alive  than  Triss;  he  wouldn't  bite  any  one 
unless  he  attacked  me.  Give  me  a  slap,  and  you'll  see — 
I  won't  let  him  come  near  you." 

"  Thank  you,  I'd  rather  not.  But  he  sometimes  growls 
even  at  you,  and  shows  his  teeth,  too." 

"  That's  only  a  way  of  his,  and  when  he  does  it  I  kick 
him.  Come  here,  Triss — come  here,  sir !  "  The  dog 
approached  slowly;  he  sat  down  and  gave  his  paw  to  his 
master,  but  he  did  not  cease  to  growl.  "  There !  We 
have  had  enough  of  you,  go  back  to  your  chair.  What 
will  you  take — a  glass  of  Chartreuse — a  cigarette  }  " 

"  Thanks,  both  if  you  will  let  me.  I  see  you  like 
pretty  things,"  he  said,  admiring  the  tall  legs  of  the 
table — early  English — and  the  quaint  glasses  into  which 
Frank  poured  the  liqueur.  "  You've  got  the  place  to  look 
very  nice." 

"  Very  different  from  what  it  was  when  the  smith  and 
his  boisterous  brood  were  here,"  and  as  if  he  intended 
an  apt  illustration  of  his  words,  he  stretched  his  leg  out 
on  the  white  fur  rug  and  surveyed  his  calf  and  red  silk 
stocking.  "  Just  look  at  that  dog,  isn't  he  a  beauty  f  I 
always  think  he  looks  well  in  that  attitude,  leaning  his 
head  over  the  rail.     I  began  a  picture  of  him  the  other 


197 

day  in  a  pose  somewhat  like  that.  I'll  show  it  you." 
Frank  propped  his  sketch  against  the  leg  of  the  sofa, 
and  returned  to  his  place  on  the  sofa.  "  What  do  you 
think  of  it.^     Your  father  said  it  was  very  like." 

"  It  is  like  him,  but  I  can  see  no  merit  in  it.  I'm 
afraid  of  the  brute.  I  can't  help  hating  him,  for  he 
always  looks  as  if  he  were  going  for  my  legs.  What 
else  have  you  been  painting.''  Any  pretty  women  about? 
I  should  admire  them  more." 

"  I  haven't  been  painting  lately,"  he  said,  sighing  a 
little  melodramatically,  as  was  his  wont,  "  I  think  I  have 
been  playing  the  piano  more  than  anything  else.  I  have 
composed  something,  too,  I  don't  think  it  bad,  I'll  play 
it  to  you:  a  dialogue  between  a  gentleman  and  a  lady. 
He  speaks  first,  then  she  answers,  then  I  blend  the  two 
motives,  and  that  is  what  they  both  say." 

Willy  sat  enwrapped  in  his  own  thoughts,  not  having 
heard  a  note.  Though  he  knew  that  Willy  was  incap- 
able of  judging  of  music,  it  disappointed  him  that  his 
dialogue  had  passed  unperceived.  Then  smiling,  he 
struck  a  few  notes,  and  Willy  awoke.  "  You  haven't 
been  listening,"  he  said,  reproachfully.  "  You  don't  care 
for  any  music,  except  that  little  tune." 

"  Yes,  I  do ;  I  heard  what  you  played,  and  I  think  it 
very  pretty." 

"  Willy,  I  am  the  most  miserable  man  in  the  world. 
Every  hour,  every  minute  of  my  life  is  a  pain  to  me. 
I  never  knew  before  what  you  must  have  suffered,  but  I 
know  now;  it  is  a  sickening  feeling,  it  takes  you  by  the 
throat,  it  rises  in  the  throat,  and  you  are  almost  suffo- 
cated. Last  night  I  lay  awake  hour  after  hour  thinking. 
I  could  see  Maggie  as  plainly  as  I  can  see  you — she 
looked  down  upon  me  out  of  space  with  strange,  stead- 
fast eyes,  and  my  whole  soul  went  out  to  her,  and  I  cried 
to  her  that  I  loved  her  beyond  all  things;  and  we  seemed 
to  be  so  near  each  other;  it  seemed  such  an  intimate  and 


198 

perfect  communion  of  spirit  and  sense  that  I  seemed,  as  it 
were,  lifted  out  of  actual  life;  I  seemed  to  myself  holier, 
purer,  better  than  I  had  ever  been  before;  I  seemed  to 
lose  all  that  is  gross  and  material  in  me,  and  to  gain  in 
all  that  is  best  and  worthiest  in  man.  Did  you  feel  like 
that  when  you  were  in  love?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  felt  exactly  like  that.  But 
never  mind  how  I  felt;  you  are  too  fond  of  alluding  to 
that  subject,  it  is  a  very  painful  one  to  me;  you  will 
make  me  regret  that  I  ever  told  you  anything  about  it." 
"  I  am  sorry  I  mentioned  it.  It  is  strange,  but  when 
one  suffers  one  likes  to  speak  of  and  to  compare  with 
one's  own  the  suffering  that  another  has  endured.  Your 
sister  treats  me  most  cruelly.  She  has  forgiven  me  that 
miserable  business,  but  she  refuses  to  hold  out  any  hope 
that  she  will  ever  be  my  wife.  I  don't  understand — I  am 
utterly  at  sea.  I  don't  believe  for  a  moment  that  she 
cares  for  that  horrid  brute;  he  is  gone  away.  She  tells 
me  she  never  cared  for  him.  If  so,  I  should  like  to 
learn  your  explanation  of  her  conduct." 

Willy  stroked  his  moustache,  apparently  declining  the 
responsibility  of  apologist;  but  his  manner  showed  he 
had  something  on  his  mind,  and  Frank  sought  more 
eagerly  than  ever  to  enlist  his  sympathy  and  support. 

"  I  have  done  everything  I  could  to  win  her.  I  don't 
know  why  she  should  be  so  difficult  to  please.  I  am  not 
bad  looking,  I  am  at  least  as  good  looking  as  that  damned 
brute  "  (here  he  paused  to  glance  at  himself  in  the  glass 
and  smooth  the  curls  above  his  forehead).  "  I  am  cer- 
tainly quite  as  clever  "  (here  he  thought  of  his  painting, 
and  his  eye  sought  one  of  his  pictures),  "  and  my  posi- 
tion— I  will  not  speak  of  that,  it  would  be  snobbish. 
Women  have  cared  for  me.  I  have  told  Maggie  hundreds 
of  times  that  I  never  could  care  for  any  but  her.  Fate 
seems  to  have  specially  marked  us  for  each  other.  You 
must  admit  that  there  is  something  very  remarkable  in 


199 

the  way  we  have  been  brought  together  over  and  over 
again.  I  have  told  her  that  my  life  is  wortliless  without 
her.  The  day  before  yesterday,  when  I  was  speaking 
to  her,  I  burst  into  tears.  That  a  man  should  cry,  no 
doubt,  seems  to  you  very  ridiculous,  but  if  you  knew 
how  I  suffer  you  would  pity  me.  I  often  think  I  shall 
commit  suicide."  Frank  took  the  stiletto  from  his  pocket. 
"  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  when  you  knocked  at  the  door 
I  was  lying  on  the  sofa  thinking  it  over.  One  stab  just 
here  and  I  should  be  at  peace  for  ever.  I  told  her  so 
yesterday." 

"  I'm  not  fond  of  giving  advice,  as  you  know — I  have 
quite  enough  to  do  to  think  about  my  own  affairs — but 
as  you  have  often  spoken  to  me  on  this  matter,  and  as 
you  have  asked  me  for  my  opinion  and  my  help,  I  had 
better  tell  you  that  I  differ  entirely  from  you  concerning 
the  wisdom  of  the  course  you  are  pursuing." 

"  How's  that  ? "  said  Frank,  at  first  surprised  and 
then  delighted  at  Willy's  breaking  from  his  reserve. 

"  What  I  mean  is,  that  I  think  you  would  be  more 
successful  if  you  would  lay  aside  daggers  and  revolvers, 
and  try  to  win  her  affection  by  patience  and  gentleness. 
Maggie  was  talking  to  me  about  it  no  later  than  last 
night,  and  I  could  see  clearly  that  you  frighten  her  with 
bluster.  I  am  sure  there  are  times  when  she  dreads 
you;  it  must  be  a  positive  terror  to  her  to  sit  with  you 
alone — so  it  would  be  to  any  girl." 

"  What  do  you  mean.''  " 

"  Maggie  is  a  very  delicate  and  nervous  girl,  and  it 
wouldn't  surprise  me  if  your  threats  to  commit  suicide 
seriously  affected  her  health;  you  come  with  a  revolver 
and  a  stiletto,  and  you  ask  her  to  marry  you,  and  if 
she  doesn't  at  once  say  yes,  you  abuse  her,  declaring 
all  the  time  that  you'll  stab  yourself  with  the  revolver 
and  shoot  yourself  with  the  stiletto — I  beg  your  pardon, 
I  mean " 


200 

**  Of  course,  if  you've  come  here  only  to  turn  me  into 
ridicule " 

"  I  assure  you  I  didn't  mean  it — a  slip  of  the  tongue," 
and  as  their  eyes  met  at  that  moment,  neither  could 
refrain  from  laughter. 

"  Admit  that  there  is  something  in  what  I  say.  If 
you  will  behave  a  little  more  quietly — if  you  will  talk 
to  her  nicely;  leave  off  assuring  her  of  your  love,  she 
knows  all  that  already;  have  some  patience  and  for- 
bearance; you  will  see  if  before  long  she  doesn't  change 
towards  you." 

His  interest  in  the  matter  was  a  desire  that  his  sister 
should  not  miss  this  chance  of  marrying  the  future  Lord 
Mount  Rorke.  But  Maggie  felt  too  sure  of  Frank  to  re- 
sist the  temptation  to  tantalise  him;  besides  her  moods 
were  naturally  various,  and  the  first  relapse  into  her 
former  coldness  was  answered  by  a  sudden  reversion  to 
threats  of  murder  and  suicide,  and  one  summer  evening 
about  six  o'clock,  when  Mrs.  Horlock  took  her  dogs  out 
and  stood  at  the  corner  waiting  for  Angel,  a  rumour  was 
abroad  that  Mr.  Escott  had  stabbed  himself  to  the  heart, 
and  had  fallen  weltering  in  his  blood  at  Miss  Brookes's 
feet. 

Dr.  Dickinson  walked  across  the  green,  watched  with 
palpitating  anxiety  from  the  corner  of  the  Southdown 
Road.  The  General  spoke  to  the  farmer,  and  the  farm- 
er's pupil  nudged  the  general  dealer.  Mrs.  Horlock 
spoke  to  the  grocers,  and  the  owners  of  the  baths  de- 
clared they  had  just  heard  from  their  servant  that  the 
young  man  was  not  dead,  but  mortally  wounded. 

There  was,  therefore,  no  doubt  that  Dr.  Dickinson  was 
going  to  Mrs.  Heald's,  and  would  not  turn  to  the  right 
and  walk  to  the  station  for  the  quarter-to-seven  train; 
and  expectation  on  this  point  ceasing,  the  group  ex- 
pressed its  sympathy  for  the  young  man.  Poor  young 
man — and  so  good-looking  too — what  will  she  do  if  he 


201 

should  die? — and  he  must  die — there  was  no  doubt  of 
it.  Maria  had  met  Mary — that  was  the  housemaid  at  the 
Manor  House — it  was  Mary  who  had  mopped  up  the 
blood.  She  said  there  was  a  great  pool  right  in  the 
middle  of  the  new  carpet  under  the  window — they  were 
sitting  there  on  the  ottoman  when  he  said  suddenly, 
"  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  marry  me ;  if  you  won't  I 
must  die."  Notwithstanding  this  she  continued  to  play 
with  him — the  cruel  little  minx!  He  could  stand  it  no 
longer,  and  he  pulled  out  a  dagger  he  had  brought  from 
the  East,  and  stabbed  himself  twice  close  to  the  heart. 
What  will  she  do.f* — she  is  his  murderer — to  all  intents 
and  purposes  she  is  his  murderer — she  will  have  to  go 
into  a  convent — she  won't  go  into  a  convent — she'll 
brazen  it  out.  No  one  thinks  much  of  those  girls — the 
way  Sally  carried  on  with  young  Meason — it  was  dis- 
graceful— they  say  she  used  to  steal  her  father's  money 
and  give  it  to  him — Dr.  Dickinson  could  tell  fine  tales. 

Then  gossip  ceased,  and  they  were  in  doubt  if  they 
might  intercept  the  doctor  and  obtain  news  of  his  patient 
when  he  left  Mrs.  Heald's.  Some  strolled  about  the 
green,  pretending  to  be  taking  the  air.  Mrs.  Horlock, 
however,  had  no  scruples,  and  picking  up  Angel  and  call- 
ing to  Rose  and  Flora,  she  walked  straight  to  Mrs. 
Heald's,  and  was  seen  to  go  in.  Some  five  minutes  after 
she  came  out  with  the  doctor.  Frank  was  not  dead,  nor 
mortally  wounded,  nor  even  dangerously  wounded,  but 
he  had  had  a  very  narrow  escape. 

"  I  said  to  him,  '  You  have  had  a  very  narrow  escape.' 
The  fact  is — (I,  of  course,  examined  the  weapon) — a 
small  part  of  the  point  had  been  broken  away;  it  was 
this  that  saved  him.  The  first  blow  scarcely  pierced 
his  clothes;  the  second  was  more  effective,  it  entered  the 
flesh  just  above  the  heart,  and  I  have  no  doubt  if  the 
steel  had  penetrated  a  quarter  of  an  inch  deeper  that  he 


202 

would  have  killed  himself.  But  so  far  as  I  can  see  at 
present,  he  will  get  over  it  without  much  difliculty." 

"  When  did  it  occur  ?  " 

"About  an  hour  ago,  at  the  Manor  House.  It  appears 
that  he  has  gone  there  every  day  for  the  last  three  weeks 
to  ask  Miss  Brookes  to  marry  him;  she,  however,  would 
not  give  him  any  definite  answer " 

"Horrid  girl!" 

"  I  never  liked  her ;  most  deceitful ;  no  doubt  she  flirted 
with  him  outrageously." 

"  I  can't  say.  I  hear  that  he  often  threatened  to  kill 
himself,  and  to-day,  to  conclude,  he  pulled  out  his 
stiletto." 

"  I  thought  it  was  a  dagger  he  had  brought  from  the 
East?  " 

"  No,  the  weapon  they  showed  me  was  an  Italian 
stUetto." 

The  grocer's  daughter  shuddered,  her  mother  mur- 
mured, "  And  for  that  girl." 

"  We  didn't  know  him.  The  Brookes  never  allow  their 
friends  to  know  any  one  in  Southwick,  but  I  have  heard 
that  he  is  an  exceedingly  nice " 

"  He  will  be  Lord  Mount  Rorke,  if  his  uncle  doesn't 
marry  again." 

"  He  must  have  been  desperately  in  love ;  no  one  ever 
heard  of  such  a  thing  before.  It  sounds  like  the  Middle 
Ages — a  stiletto !  " 

"  But  what  could  he  see  in  her  ?  That's  what  I  can't 
make  out;  can  you?  " 

"  Ah !  there  I  can't  assist  you.  I  hope  to  be  able  to 
cvae  him  of  the  stiletto  wound,  but  Cupid's  arrows  are 
beyond  me.  They  did  not  fly  so  thickly  or  strike  so  hard 
in  my  time."     And,  laughing,  the  doctor  withdrew. 

"  I  suppose  that  after  this  she  will  marry  him ;  she 
never  intended  to  let  him  slip  through  her  fingers.  I 
can  see  her  face  when  she  heard  that  another  quarter  of 


208 

an  inch  and  her  chance  of  being  Lady  Mount  Rorke  was 
gone  for  ever." 

"  I  daresay  he  won't  marry  her  now.  It  would  serve 
her  right.     I  should  be  so  glad." 

And  so  pouring  their  gall  out  upon  the  unfortunate 
Maggie,  the  tradespeople  returned  to  their  homes.  The 
stiletto  was  so  utterly  unprecedented,  and  so  complete 
a  reversal  of  all  conception  of  the  chances  of  life  at 
Southwick,  that  every  one  felt  puzzled  and  dissatisfied, 
even  when  gossip  had  brought  to  light  every  circum- 
stantial detail  of  the  romantic  story.  Had  the  deed 
been  done  with  a  knife,  with  anything  but  a  stiletto; 
had  he  hanged  himself,  or  cut  his  throat  with  a  razor, 
or  shot  himself  with  his  revolver,  the  wonder  of  the 
Southwickians  would  not  have  been  so  excited.  But 
a  stiletto !  And  for  a  week  an  Italy  of  brigands  and 
bravoes,  and  stealthy  surprises  haunted  shadows  of  pic- 
turesque archways,  an  Italy  of  chromo-lithographed  skies 
and  draperies  in  the  Southdown  Road.  Maggie  was 
spoken  of  with  alternate  fear  and  hate;  her  wickedness 
seemed  more  than  natural,  and  had  the  Southdown  Road 
known  anything  of  Italian  opera,  there  is  little  doubt  that 
Miss  Brookes  would  have  been  compared  to  Lucretia 
Borgia.  The  young  women  looked  out  of  their  windows 
at  night,  and  wondered  how  they'd  feel  if  a  troubadour 
were  suddenly  to  sing  to  them  from  behind  the  privet 
hedges.  The  young  men  were  even  more  impressed  than 
their  womenfolk;  they  cursed  their  place  of  birth  and 
habitation,  knowing  that  it  incapacitated  them  from 
knowing  her;  they  wasted  their  mothers'  candles  sitting 
up  till  two  in  the  morning  writing  odes  to  cruel  women 
with  raven  hair;  and  all  gazed  sadly  on  the  old  ship  in 
the  harbour,  and  the  Spanish  main  seemed  nearer,  and 
those  gallant  days  more  realisable  than  they  had  ever 
been  before. 

The  direct  cause  of  this  revival  of  romance  lived,  how- 


204 

ever,  unconscious  of  it.  She  was  genuinely  frightened. 
She  said  her  prayers  with  great  fervour,  begging  God 
that  He  might  save  Frank,  and  that  she  might  not  be  a 
murderess.  She  made  him  soups,  she  sent  him  wine,  she 
brought  him  books,  and  she  sat  with  him  for  hours.  She 
thought  he  had  never  looked  so  nice  as  now — so  pale, 
so  aristocratic,  so  elegantly  weak,  his  head  laid  upon  a 
cushion,  which  she  had  brought  him,  and  when  he  took 
her  hand  and  said,  "Will  you,  darling?  "  and  she  mur- 
mured, "  Yes,"  then  it  seemed  that  the  happiness  of  his 
life  was  upon  his  face. 

Three  days  after  Frank  was  sitting  at  his  table  writing 
to  Mount  Rorke,  and  on  the  following  Sunday  he  walked 
to  the  Manor  House  to  tell  Mr.  Brookes  that  he  was  en- 
gaged to  his  daughter,  and  to  ask  his  consent.  He  did 
not  think  of  his  folly,  he  was  too  happy;  he  seemed  like 
one  in  a  quiet  dulcet  dream;  he  walked  slowly,  leaning 
from  time  to  time  against  the  wooden  paling,  for  he 
wished  to  prolong  this  meditative  moment;  he  saw  every- 
thing vaguely,  and  loved  all  with  a  quiet  fulness  of  heart ; 
he  took  in  the  sense  of  this  village  and  its  life  as  he  had 
never  done  before.  He  compared  it  with  Ireland;  Mount 
Rorke,  with  its  towers,  and  lakes,  and  woods,  arose,  and 
he  was  grateful  that  Maggie  was  going  there,  yet  he  was 
sure  that  he  could  not  live  without  sometimes  seeing  this 
village  where  he  had  found  so  much  happiness. 

His  wound  had  sucked  away  his  strength,  the  sunlight 
dazzled  him,  and  feeling  a  little  overcome,  and  not  equal, 
without  pause,  to  the  long  interview  that  awaited  him,  he 
stayed  awhile  in  a  shady  laurel  corner,  and  leaning 
against  a  piece  of  iron  railing,  watched  Mr.  Brookes  and 
Mr.  Berkins  as  they  paced  the  tennis  lawn  to  and  fro. 
The  old  gentleman  frequently  stopped  in  his  walk  to 
point  at  the  glass-houses. 

"  My  dear  Berkins,  I  wish  you  would  try  to  get  Willy 
some  appointment;  he  would,  I  am  sure,  take  anything 


205 

over  two  hundred  and  fifty  a  year.  He  would  do  mar- 
vellously well  in  an  office — he  loves  it.  I  assure  you  his 
eyes  twinkle  when  one  speaks  of  how  books  are  kept,  or 
alludes  in  any  way  to  the  routine  of  office  work.  You 
should  see  his  accounts  and  his  letter  books,  they  would 
make  the  best  clerk  you  ever  had  feel  ashamed  of  him- 
self; but  left  to  himself  I  am  afraid  he  will  do  no  good; 
he  has  all  the  method,  but  nothing  else.  He  lost  money 
in  Bond  Street;  I  am  afraid  to  tell  you  how  much  he 
dropped  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  but  that  was  not  en- 
tirely his  fault — the  firm  went  bankrupt;  nobody  could 
have  foreseen  it,  it  was  quite  unheard  of." 

"  I  have  always  noticed  that  successful  men  do  not 
buy  partnerships  in  firms  that  go  bankrupt." 

"  Very  true,  Berkins ;  I  wish  I  had  asked  your  advice 
on  the  subject." 

"  I  wish  you  had,  Mr.  Brookes.  You  are  no  doubt  a 
very  clever  man,  but  on  one  or  two  points  you  are  liable 
to  make  mistakes;  you  are,  if  I  may  so  speak,  a  little 
weak.  You  should  come  and  live  with  me  for  a  few 
months,  I  would  put  you  right." 

"  This  is  really  too  much,"  thought  Mr.  Brookes;  and 
had  it  not  been  for  the  certain  knowledge  that  Berkins 
had  lately  increased  his  income  by  a  couple  of  thousands 
a  year,  he  would  have  answered  him  tartly  enough;  but 
as  this  fact  admitted  of  no  doubt  he  bridled  his  anger 
and  said:  "  If  you  could  put  my  boy  right  it  would  be 
more  to  the  point.  He  has  all  the  method  of  the  best 
clerk  in  London;  he  loves  the  work,  he  would  do  honour 
to  any  office,  but  on  his  own  hook  I  am  afraid  he  will 
never  do  anything  but  lose  his  money." 

"  Your  money,  you  mean." 

"  Well,  my  money  if  you  like.  You  are  very  provok- 
ing, Berkins.  I  don't  know  if  you  do  it  with  the  express 
purpose  of  annoying  me.  I  was  saying,  when  you  inter- 
rupted me,  that  Nature  had  evidently  intended  my  son 


206 

for  a  clerk  rather  than  for  a  speculator.  I  fear  he  is 
doing  very  badly  with  his  shop  in  Brighton.  The  rents 
are  very  high  in  East  Street,  and  I  don't  think  he  sells 
anything.  He  takes  enough  away  from  here,  though.  I 
don't  remember  if  I  ever  told  you  that  I  was  foolish 
enough  to  agree  to  his  taking  away,  buying  from  me  at 
the  market  price  he  calls  it,  the  surplus  produce  of  my 
garden  and  greenhouses.  1  daresay  I  shall  get  the 
money  one  of  these  days,  but  at  present  I  see  no  sign  of 
it.  He  is  always  making  up  the  accounts,  and,  so  far 
as  we  have  gone,  the  result  of  this  arrangement  is  that, 
when  I  complain  that  there  is  neither  fruit  nor  vegetables 
on  my  table,  I  am  told  that  everything  went  to  Brighton. 
I  am  forced,  I  assure  you,  to  send  my  carriage  and  my 
horses,  that  I  paid  two  hundred  guineas  for,  to  fetch 
potatoes,  and  he,  too,  uses  my  carriage  to  take  his  veg- 
etables to  the  shop.  He  gets  his  sisters  to  bring  them 
when  they  go  out  driving,  nor  can  I  even  buy  my  fruit 
and  vegetables  off  him  at  cost  price;  he  says  that  would 
interfere  with  his  book-keeping,  and  so  I  am  obliged  to 
buy  everything  from  Hutton,  and  you  know  what  his 
prices  are.     I  assure  you,  it  is  most  annoying." 

"  Mr.  Brookes,  your  fortune  will  not  bear  this  constant 
drain;  you  must  remember  that  we  are  living  in  very 
bad  times — times  that  are  not  what  they  were.  I  have 
heard  that  your  distillery " 

"  Yes,  times  are  very  bad.  I  have  never  known  them 
worse,  and  no  doubt  you  find  them  so  too.  They  ought 
to  affect  you  even  more  than  they  do  me.  My  income  is, 
as  you  know,  all  invested  money,  whereas  yours  is  all 
in  your  business." 

"  Of  course,  I  am  affected  by  the  times ;  had  they 
remained  what  they  were,  even  what  they  were  towards 
the  end  of  the  seventies,  I  should  be  making  now  some- 
thing over  ten  thousand  pounds  a  year.  But,  thank  God ! 
I  have  not  to  complain.     Next  year   I  hope  to  invest 


207 

another  five  thousand  pounds.  The  worst  of  it  is,  that 
there  is  no  price  for  money  in  legitimate  securities." 

"  Everything  is  very  bad ;  you  never  will  invest  your 
money  as  I  did  mine  ten  years  ago.  My  business  is  not, 
of  course,  what  it  used  to  be,  but  I  don't  complain;  if  it 
weren't  for  troubles  nearer  home  I  should  get  on  very 
well." 

"  I  hope  that  Sally  has  commenced  no  new  flirtation 
in  the  Southdown  Road.  I  thought  she  had  promised 
you — since  she  gave  up  Meason — that  she  would  for  the 
future  know  no  one  that  lived  there." 

"  I  was  thinking  for  the  moment  of  Willy,  not  of  Sally ; 
she  has  not  been  so  troublesome  lately.  But  no  sooner 
are  we  out  of  one  trouble  than  we  are  in  another.  It  is, 
of  course,  very  regrettable  that  young  Escott  should  have 
stabbed  himself,  and  in  my  garden  too.  I,  who  hate 
scandals,  seem  always  plunged  in  one.  I  hear  they  are 
talking  of  it  in  the  clubs  in  Brighton.  I  hope  Lord 
Mount  Rorke  will  not  hear  of  it;  if  he  did,  do  you  think 
it  would  prejudice  him  against  the  match?" 

"  Then  you're  prepared  to  give  your  consent  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  Surely !  I  really  don't  see — Lord  Mount 
Rorke  is  a  very  rich  man." 

"  Possibly,  but  Irish  peers  are  not  always  as  rich  as 
they  would  like  us  to  believe  they  are.  The  connection 
is,  of  course,  desirable,  but  I  hope  your  anxiety  to  secure 
it  will  not  lead  you  into  making  foolish,  I  will  say  repre- 
hensible, monetary  concessions.  What  I  mean  is  this.  I 
am  a  straightforward  man,  Mr.  Brookes,  brought  up  in  a 
hard  school,  and  I  always  come  straight  to  the  point.  You 
are  a  rich  man,  Mr.  Brookes — you  have  the  reputation 
of  being  a  richer  man  than  you  are — and  it  is  possible,  I 
don't  say  it  is  probable,  that  Lord  Mount  Rorke  will  ex- 
pect you  to  make  a  large  settlement.  He  will  possibly — 
mind  you,  I  do  not  say  probably — taking  the  coronet  into 
consideration — those  people  think  as  much  of  their  titles 


208 

as  we  do  of  our  money — ask  you  to  settle  a  thousand  a 
year,  maybe  fifteen  hundred  a  year,  upon  your  daugh- 
ter." 

"  Settle  a  thousand — ^maybe  fifteen  hundred — a  year 
on  my  daughter !  "  cried  the  horror-stricken  Brookes. 

"  He  may  even  ask  for  two  thousand  a  year.  Remem- 
ber, you  are  a  distiller — he  is  a  peer  of  the  realm.  And 
now  I  say,"  continued  Berkins,  growing  more  emphatic 
as  he  reached  the  close  of  his  declamation,  "  that  in  my 
wife's  interest  I  will  oppose  any  and  all  attempts  to 
purchase  a  coronet  for  Maggie  at  her  sister's  expense." 

Mr.  Brookes  stood  for  a  moment  stupefied — as  if  some 
great  calamity  had  befallen  him.  The  housekeeping  bills, 
the  loss  of  his  fruit  and  vegetables,  even  the  Southdown 
Road  seemed  as  nothing  in  the  face  of  this  new  misfor- 
tune. Troublesome  as  his  daughters  were,  he  preferred 
an  occasional  recrudescence  of  flirtation  in  his  garden 
to  settling  the  money  that  he  had  made  himself  and  letting 
them  go;  no  pen  can  describe  the  anguish  that  the  sur- 
rendering of  the  ten  thousand  pounds  which  he  had  set- 
tled on  Grace  had  caused  him;  but  to  be  told  now  that 
the  alliance  with  a  lord  which  he  so  greedily  coveted,  and 
which  had  been  so  agreeably  tickling  him  for  the  last  few 
days,  would  cost  him  perhaps  two  thousand  a  year,  was 
more  than  he  could  bear.  He  had  avoided  as  much  as 
possible  even  thinking  of  the  money  question.  One  him- 
dred — two  hundred — ^the  shadow  of  three  hundred  had 
fallen  for  a  moment  on  his  mind,  but  he  had  successfully 
chastened  these  impleasantnesses  by  thoughts  of  the  lib- 
erality, the  generosity  of  the  aristocracy,  and  he  had  en- 
couraged a  hope  that  Mount  Rorke  would  let  him  off 
with  a  statement  of  how  much  Maggie  would  have  at  his 
death.  And  now  to  hear  these  terrible  prognostications, 
and  from  his  own  son-in-law,  too.  It  was  too  bad — it 
was  too  cruel. 

"  You  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,  Berkins. 


209 

If  it  were  business  I  would  listen  to  you,  but  really  when 
it  comes  to  discussing  the  aristocracy  it  is  more  than  I 
can  stand.  What  do  you  know  about  the  aristocracy — 
not  that,"  cried  Mr.  Brookes,  snapping  his  fingers.  "  You 
were  brought  up  in  an  ofiice — what  should  you  know? 
You  were  a  clerk  once  at  thirty  shillings  a  week — what 
should  you  know.^  Lord  Mount  Rorke  would  never  think 
of  making  such  ridiculous  proposals  to  me.  You  judge 
him  by  yourself,  Berkins,  that's  it,  that's  it!  I  daresay 
he  has  heard  of  me  in  the  City — many  of  your  great  lords 
do  business  in  the  City.  I  daresay  he  has  heard  of  me, 
and  if  he  has  he'll  not  try  any  nonsense  with  me.  Twist 
him  round  my  finger,  twist  him  round  my  finger." 

Berkins  liked  a  lord,  but  Berkins  liked  lords  without 
thinking  himself  one  jot  their  inferior,  and  he  was  sure 
that  his  horse  and  his  dog  and  his  house  and  everything 
belonging  to  him  were  better  than  theirs;  and  secure 
in  the  fact  that  his  grandfather  had  been  a  field  officer, 
he  did  not  think  it  amiss  to  brag  that  he  had  begun  life 
with  thirty  shillings  a  week,  so  he  only  smiled  at  his 
father-in-law's  wrath,  feeling  now  easy  in  his  mind  that 
Grace's  future  fortune  would  not  be  prejudiced  for  Mag- 
gie's glorification. 

The  discussion  had  fallen,  and  Mr.  Brookes  went  to 
meet  the  young  man  whom  he  caught  sight  of  coming 
across  the  sward. 

"  Most  imprudent  of  you  to  come  out  to-day,"  he  said, 
scanning  the  white  face. 

"  Oh,  I  am  very  well  now,  thanks.  The  sun  is  a  little 
overpowering,  that  is  all.  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Mr. 
Brookes." 

"  Speak  to  me  ?  Yes.  Will  you  go  into  the  billiard- 
room,  my  boy.'*  I  can  see  the  heat  has  upset  you.  Take 
my  arm." 

Frank  took  the  offered  arm.  He  was  feeling  very 
faint,  but  the  cool  and  dim  colour  of  the  billiard-room 


210 

revived  him,  and  when  he  had  had  some  claret  and  water, 
he  said  that  he  felt  quite  strong,  and  listened  patiently 
to  Mr.  Brookes. 

"  Well,  I  never !  No,  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing. 
A  stiletto,  too.  You  brought  it  from  Italy?  It  makes 
me  feel  quite  young  again.  Ah !  'tis  hard  to  say  what 
we  won't  do  for  a  girl  when  Miss  Right  comes  along. 
I  was  just  the  same — pretty  keen  on  it,  I  can  tell  you, 
when  I  was  your  age;  and  I  don't  know,  even  now, — 
but  a  man  with  grown-up  daughters  must  be  careful. 
Still  when  I  see  a  little  waist,  high  heels,  plump — you 
know,  that's  the  way  I  used  to  like  them  when  I  used 
to  go  to  the  oyster  shops;  there  was  one  at  the  top  of 
the  Haymarket.  Ah!  I  was  young  then,  young  as  you 
are;  I  was  keen  on  it — Aunt  Mary  will  tell  you  that — 
there  was  nothing  I  wouldn't  do;  I  never  went  as  far 
as  stabbing — walking  about  at  night,  tears,  torments  as 
much  as  you  like,  but  I  never  went  so  far  as  stabbing. 
Wonderful  what  love  will  make  a  man  do!  Supposing 
you  had  killed  yourself ;  in  my  garden,  too — awful ! 
What  would  people  say?  I  hear  they  are  talking  of 
it  in  the  clubs — hope  it  won't  go  any  further.  Should 
Mount  Rorke  hear  of  it!  Eh?  Might  set  him  against 
us;  might  not  give  his  consent — eh?  We  should  be  up 
a  tree,  then." 

"  I  don't  think  there  is  much  danger  of  that.  I  came 
to-day,  Mr.  Brookes,  to  ask  for  your  consent;  am  I  to 
imder stand  that  you  give  it?  " 

"  WeU,  my  dear  Frank,  I  don't  see  why  I  should 
refuse  it;  I  have  known  you  since  you  were  quite  a 
small  boy.  I  don't  want  to  flatter  you.  I  don't  know 
that  I  care  much  about  young  men  as  a  rule,  but  you, 
I  have  always  found  you — well,  just  what  you  should  be. 
Of  course  the  connection  is  very  flattering.  You  will 
one  day  be  Lord  Mount  Rorke,  and  to  see  my  darling 
Maggie  sharing  your  honours  will  be — that  is  to  say  if 


211 

I  live  to  see  it — a  great,  a  very  gre — great  hon — our." 
Feeling  much  embarrassed  Frank  begged  of  him  not 
to  mention  it,  "  I  shall  be  writing  to-morrow  or  next 
day  to  my  uncle;  shall  I  say  that  you  have  given  your 
consent  to  my  marriage  with  your  daughter?  I  may 
say  that  I  have  already  written  to  him  on  the  subject." 
"  By  all  means,  my  dear  boy.  I  think  I  can  say  you 
have  my  consent — that  is  to  say,  you  have  my  consent 
if  the  money's  all  right.  All  is,  of  course,  subject  to 
that.  Now  you  are  for  love  in  a  cottage,  bread  and 
cheese  romance;  a  man  who  will  use  a  stiletto  can't  be 
expected  to  know  much  about  money,  but  I  am  a  father, 
my  stiletto  days  are  over,  and  I  couldn't  give  my  daugh- 
ter without  a  settlement.  You  will,  no  doubt,  be — of 
course  you  will  be — Lord  Mount  Rorke  one  of  these 
days;  but  in  the  meantime  there  must  be  a  proper  settle- 
ment. My  daughter  must  be  properly  provided  for;  it 
is  my  duty  to  look  after  her  interests,  so  you  may  as 
well  tell  your  uncle  that  I  shall  be  pleased  to  meet  him 
and  talk  the  matter  over  with  him.  I  will  meet  him  in 
London,  when  it  suits  his  convenience;  I  need  hardly 
say  that  if  he  should  choose  to  come  down  here  that  I 
shall  be  pleased  to  see  him.  And  now  tell  me — of  course 
he  will  be  prepared  to  act  handsomely;  I  have  no  doubt 
he  will,  the  aristocracy  always  do  act  handsomely,  no  one 
is  so  liberal  as  your  aristocrat.  I  hope  he  will  settle  a 
good  round  sum  on  my  daughter — ^money  invested  in 
first-class  securities,  not  what  Berkins  would  call  first- 
class,  but  what  I  should  call  first-class  securities;  and 
should  your  uncle  prove  the  liberal  man  that  I  have  no 
doubt  he  is,  I  don't  say  that  I  won't  behave  handsomely. 
Of  course  you  know  that  my  dear  children  will  have  all 
my  money  at  my  death.  I  shall  never  marry  again,  that 
is  a  settled  thing;  but  in  the  meantime  I  will  do  some- 
thing. When  Grace  was  married  I  behaved  very  gen- 
erously— too  generously — a  lot  of  money — mustn't  do  it 


212 

again^  times  are  not  what  they  were.  But  at  my  death 
I  shall  make  no  difference,  all  three  will  share  and 
share  alike." 

Frank  hoped  when  Brookes  and  Mount  Rorke  met, 
that  the  former  would  modify  his  demands,  and  what 
was  still  more  important,  his  mode  of  expressing  them. 
But  why  should  Mr.  Brookes  appear  to  him  in  such  a 
sudden  glow  of  vulgarity?  He  had  never  thought  of 
him  as  a  refined  and  cultivated  gentleman,  but  was  un- 
prepared for  this  latest  manifestation. 

"  Lord  Mount  Rorke  allows  me  a  certain  annual  in- 
come, he  will  no  doubt  double  this  income  upon  my  mar- 
riage; I  daresay  he  would — since  he  has  recognised  me 
as  his  heir — make  this  income  legally  mine  by  deed,  I 
could  then  settle  a  certain  sum  on  Maggie,  in  case  of  my 
death;  but  then  further  settlements  would  be  required 
when  I  succeed  to  the  title  and  the  property.  I  had 
thought — and  indeed  I  think  still — that  if  my  uncle 
makes  me  a  sufficient  allowance,  that  we  might  avoid 
touching  on  this  matter  at  all.  Lord  Mount  Rorke  is  an 
irritable  man,  and  I  am  sure  that  if  you  were  to  speak 
to  him  as  you " 

"  Pooh !  pooh !  Nonsense !  nonsense !  You  don't 
suppose  I  am  going  to  give  my  daughter  to  a  man  unless 
he  can  settle  a  sufficient  sum  of  money  upon  her.''  Ber- 
kins  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  He  was  only  telling  me  just 
now " 

"  But  I  don't  think  you  understand  me,  Mr.  Brookes. 
I  do  not  propose  that  you  should  give  me  any  money 
with  your  daughter.  Let  what  you  give  her  be  settled 
upon  her,  and  let  it  be  tied  up  as  strictly  as  the  law 
can  tie  it." 

"  Pooh !  pooh !  the  man  that  marries  my  daughter  must 
settle  a  sum  of  money  at  least  equal  to  what  I  settle  upon 
her ;  and  it  must  be  money  invested  in  first-class  security, 
otherwise  I  couldn't  think  of  giving  her  one  penny." 


218 

"  I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Brookes,  that  you  are  so  determined 
on  this  point.  These  matters  generally  arrange  them- 
selves if  people  incline  to  meet  each  other  half  way,  and 
I  am  sure  that  my  uncle  will  resent  it  if  you  insist  on 
pounds,  shillings,  and  pence  as  you  propose  doing.  He 
is  not  accustomed  to  strict  business — marriages  in  our 
family  were  never  made  on  such  principles;  my  happi- 
ness is  bound  up  in  Maggie.  I  hope  you  will  consider 
what  you  are  risking." 

"  I  would  do  more  for  you  than  any  one  else,  Frank, 
but  business  is  business,  and  the  man  who  has  my  daugh- 
ter must  settle  a  sum  of  money  equivalent  to  what  I 
settle." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  talked  too  much,  I  am  not  very 
strong  yet,  with  your  permission  we  will  adjourn  this 
discussion  to  another  day — in  the  meantime  I  will  write 
to  my  uncle." 

Mr.  Brookes  did  not  offer  the  assistance  of  his  arm, 
and  had  he,  Frank  would  certainly  not  have  accepted  it. 
Holding  the  door,  the  old  man  waited  for  his  visitor  to 
pass  out.  "Southdown  Road  or  the  heir  to  a  peerage: 
it  is  all  the  same,  my  money  is  what  is  wanted — the 
money  I  had  made  myself,"  thought  Mr,  Brookes. 
"Dreadful  old  man,  he  would  sell  his  daughter  for  a 
settlement  of  a  few  hundred  pounds  a  year.  I  never 
knew  he  was  so  bad,  my  eyes  are  opened,"  thought  Frank. 
Both  were  equally  angry,  and  without  secrecy  or  sub- 
terfuge they  sought  consolation  in  different  parts  of  the 
garden.  Mr.  Brookes  resumed  his  walk  on  the  tennis 
ground  with  Berkins,  and  stopping  frequently  to  point  to 
his  glass-houses,  he  described  his  misfortunes  with  pro- 
fuse waves  of  his  stick.  Frank  had  found  Maggie,  and 
they  now  walked  together  in  the  shade  and  silence  of  the 
sycamores — he,  vehement  and  despairing  of  the  future; 
she,  subtle  and  strangely  confident  that  things  would 
happen  as  she  wished  them. 


214 

Having  once  yielded  and  felt  the  pang  of  possession 
she  was  wholly  his,  in  all  ramifications  of  spirit  and  flesh, 
both  in  her  brain  and  blood,  and  the  utmost  ends  of  her 
sense  mingled  with  him.  But  to  him,  she  was  the  symbol 
of  the  desire  of  which  he  was  enamoured,  the  desire  which 
held  together  his  nature  and  gave  it  individuality — love 
of  the  young  girl. 

"  Oh !  my  darling,  if  he  should  speak  so  to  Moimt 
Rorke,  we  should  be  parted  for  ever — no,  that  could 
never  be — nothing  in  heaven  or  earth  would  induce  me 
to  give  you  up,  be  true  to  me  and  I  will  be  true  to  you; 
but  our  happiness — no,  not  our  happiness,  that  is  in  our- 
selves— but  all  our  prospects  in  life  will  be  wrecked  if 
he  will  not  give  way.  Should  he  and  Mount  Rorke 
meet " 

"  But  they  won't  meet;  have  patience — I  know  how  to 
manage  father.  He  doesn't  like  to  part  with  his  money, 
and  I  can  understand  it,  he  made  it  all  himself;  but  he 
will  get  used  to  the  idea  in  time,  leave  him  to  me;  put 
your  trust  in  me." 

She  extended  her  hand,  he  took  it,  pressed  it  to  his 
lips;  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  and  the 
leaves  of  the  sycamores  were  filled  with  the  sunset. 

"  Dear  Sir, — I  received  a  letter  this  morning  from  my 
nephew,  apprising  me  of  his  engagement  to  your  daughter. 
He  has  apparently  obtained  your  consent,  and  he  asks  for 
mine,  and  he  also  asks  from  me  not  only  an  increase  of 
income  to  meet  the  requirements  of  altered  circumstances, 
but  he  tells  me  that  you  will  expect  me  to  settle  some 
seven,  eight,  or  ten  thousand  pounds  upon  your  daughter. 

"  I  do  not  propose  to  discuss  the  reasonableness  of  his 
or  your  demands,  but  it  seems  that  a  statement  of  his 
prospects  is  owing  to  you. 

"Having  never  married  when  I  was  a  young  man,  many 
have  assumed — I  among  the  number — that  I  never  would 
marry;  and  I  admit  that  I  have  allowed  my  nephew  to 
grow  up  in  the  belief  that  he  is  my  heir  and  the  successor 


215 

to  the  title  of  Mount  Rorke ;  but  beyond  a  general  assump- 
tion existing  in  my  mind,  his  mind,  and  the  minds  of  those 
who  know  us,  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  I  shall 
not  marry,  or  that  I  shall  leave  him  a  single  sixpence,  and 
I  willingly  make  use  of  this  opportunity  to  say  that  I  have 
no  faintest  intention  of  entering  into  any  engagement 
either  verbal  or  written  with  him  upon  this  matter. — 
Yours  very  truly,  Mount  Rorke." 

"  My  Dear  Frank, — The  enclosed  is  a  copy  of  the 
letter  which  I  send  by  this  post  to  Mr.  Brookes.  And  I 
make  no  disguise  of  the  fact  that  it  was  written  with 
the  full  intention  of  rendering  your  marriage  an  impos- 
sibility. It  will  no  doubt  appear  to  you  a  harsh  and 
cruel  letter;  it  will  no  doubt  grieve  you,  madden  you — 
in  your  rage  you  may  call  me  a  brute.  The  epithet  will 
be  unjust;  but  knowing  very  well  indeed  what  love  is 
at  twenty-five,  I  will  forgive  it.  And  now  to  the  point. 
I  know  something  about  old  Brookes,  and  I  remember 
the  lean  boy  you  used  to  bring  here,  and  judging  from 
some  slight  traces  that  Eton  had  not  succeeded  in  effacing, 
I  think  I  can  guess  what  the  rest  of  the  family  is  like; 
indeed,  the  old  gentleman's  preposterous  demand  that 
I  should  settle  ten  thousand  pounds  on  his  daughter 
throws  a  sufficient  light  on  his  character,  and  in  some 
measure  reveals  what  sort  of  manner  of  man  he  is.  But 
let  all  this  be  waived.  I  admit  that  with  some  show  of 
reason,  you  may  say  it  is  unjust,  nay  more,  it  is  ridiculous, 
to  pronounce  judgment  on  people  I  have  never  seen,  and 
it  is  cruelty  worthy  of  a  Roman  Emperor  to  wreck  the 
lifelong  happiness  of  two  young  people  for  the  sake  of  a 
prejudice  that  the  trouble  of  a  journey  to  Brighton  will 
most  certainly  extinguish.  I  will  not  irritate  you  by 
assuring  you  that  the  world  is  full  of  desirable  women — 
women  that  will  appeal  to  you  two  years  hence  precisely 
as  Miss  Brookes  appeals  to  you  now.  Were  I  to  whisper 
that  it  is  unwise  to  give  up  all  women  for  one  woman, 
you  could  not  fail,  in  your  present  mood,  to  see  in  my 
philosophy  only  the  nasty  wisdom  of  a  cynical  old  repro- 
bate. Therefore  I  will  not  weary  you  with  advice — what 
I  have  said  must  be  considered  not  as  advice^  but  rather 


216 

as  an  expression  of  personal  experience  in  the  love 
passion,  serving  as  illustration  of  the  attitude  of  my  mind 
towards  you.  I  will  limit  myself  to  merely  asking  you — 
no,  not  not  to  think  again  of  Miss  Brookes — that  would  be 
impossible,  but  to  leave  Southwick  for  London  or  Paris, 
the  latter  for  preference.  I  will  give  you  a  letter  of 
introduction  to  a  charming  lady  (ah!  were  I  thirty  years 
younger).  Put  yourself  in  her  hands,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  in  the  world  but  that  she  will  send  you  back 
cured  in  six  months,  as  my  bank-book  will  abundantly 
prove. 

"  If  you  cannot  do  this — if  so  drastic  a  remedy  should 
be  too  repugnant  to  your  present  feelings,  I  would  re- 
member, were  I  in  your  place,  that  my  uncle  had  never 
refused  me  anything;  that  I  could  draw  upon  him  for 
what  money  I  liked — that  is  to  say,  for  all  pleasures 
and  satisfaction  save  one.  I  would  remember  that  at 
his  death  I  was  to  inherit  ten  thousand  a  year  and  a  title ; 
and  I  would  weigh  (first  examining  each  weight  carefully, 
to  see  if  it  were  true  weight)  all  these  present  and  future 
advantages  against  the  gratification  of  possessing  a 
woman  I  loved  when  I  was  twenty-five  for  a  period  of  time 
extending  perhaps  over  half  a  century ;  I  would  think — at 
least  I  think  and  hope  I  should  hesitate — before  I  refused 
to  obey  one  of  whose  affection  I  was  sure,  and  I  feel 
certain  it  would  go  hard  with  me  before  I  refused  to 
gratify  the  whim — call  it  a  whim  if  you  like — of  one  who 
had  often  given  but  never  asked  before. 

"Somehow  I  think  you  owe  me  this  sacrifice;  I  have 
done  much  for  you  and  am  prepared  to  do  more,  and  to 
speak  quite  candidly,  I  want  something  in  return;  I  do 
not  mean  that  I  am  desirous  of  striking  a  bargain  with 
you,  but  we  all  expect  to  receive — of  course  not  directly, 
but  in  some  remote  way — something  for  what  we  give, 
and  I  confess  that  I  look  forward  to  your  companionship 
to  assist  me  through  the  last  course  of  life.  I  do  not 
want  you  now — for  the  next  few  years  I  want  you  to 
see  the  world,  to  educate  yourself;  I  want  you  to  improve 
your  taste  in  art  and  letters,  and  later  on,  if  possible, 
to  turn  yourself  to  some  public  account.     Besides  other 


217 

work,  I  am  now  working  at  my  memoirs;  they  are  to  be 
published  after  my  death,  as  I  have  arranged,  under  your 
supervision.  I  regard  these  memoirs  as  being  of  the  first 
importance,  and  it  is  advisable  that  you  should  be  in  full 
possession  of  all  my  intentions  respecting  them.  Hitherto 
I  have  always  looked  after  everything  myself,  but  the 
time  will  come  when  I  shall  not  be  able  to  do  this,  and 
shall  require  you  to  relieve  me  of  the  burden  of  business. 
Then  I  wish  you  to  live  here,  so  that  you  may  learn  to 
love  Mount  Rorke.  I  am  very  busy  now  with  improve- 
ments, and  I  would  wish  you  to  be  with  me  so  that  you 
might  adequately  enter  into  my  views  and  ideas.  To 
conclude,  I  do  not  marry  for  your  sake ;  do  you  not  marry 
for  mine,  at  least  do  not  marry  for  the  present.  I  do 
not  say  that  if  I  knew  and  liked  the  girl  of  your  choice — 
if  she  were  in  your  own  set — that  I  could  not  be  won  over, 
but  on  the  whole  I  would  sooner  you  didn't  marry.  But  I 
could  not  really  endure  a  lot  of  new  acquaintances — people 
who  had  never  dined  in  a  lord's  house,  and  would  all  want 
to  be  asked — no,  I  could  not  endure  it.  I  am  an  old  man, 
and  now  I  want  to  enjoy  myself  in  my  own  way,  and  my 
desire  is  to  get  through  the  last  years  of  my  life  with  you. 
You  can  do  what  you  please,  ask  here  whomever  you 
please,  give  me  a  few  hours  of  your  time  when  I  am 
particularly  busy  with  my  memoirs,  and,  above  all,  let  us 
be  alone  sometimes  after  dinner,  so  that  we  can  turn  our 
chairs  round  to  the  fire  and  talk  at  our  ease. — Your 
affectionate  imcle.  Mount  Rorke." 

"  So  he  won't  pay  for  a  secretary,  and  wants  me  to  do 
the  work;  that's  about  the  meaning  of  that  letter." 
Frank  re-read  the  letter  sentence  for  sentence,  and  as 
he  read  new  sneers  and  new  expressions  of  scorn  rose  in 
his  brain  in  tremulous  ebullition.  There  was  scarcely 
a  plan  for  the  chastisement  of  his  uncle  that  he  did  not 
for  some  fleeting  moment  entertain,  and  one  most  ironical 
letter  he  committed  to  paper;  but  Maggie  would  not  hear 
of  its  being  sent,  and  he  was  surprised  and  glad  to  see  that 
she  was  not  depressed  and  disheartened  at  the  turn  af- 
fairs had  taken. 


218 

"  I  can  do  what  I  like  with  father ;  Sally  can't,  but  I 
can.    You  leave  it  to  me." 

"  What's  the  good  of  that  ?  You  can't  get  round 
Mount  Rorke." 

"  Never  mind ;  we  don't  want  to  get  married  yet 
awhile.  We'll  be  engaged^  it  is  nearly  the  same  thing. 
We  shall  be  able  to  go  anywhere  together — up  to  town, 
if  we  only  come  back  the  same  day.  Write  a  nice  letter 
to  your  uncle,  saying  you'll  do  nothing  without  his  con- 
sent; that  it  is  true  your  affections  are  very  much  en- 
gaged, but  that  your  first  thought  is  of  him " 

"  Oh !  but  my  darling,  I  want  to  make  you  mine." 

"  So  you  shall — we  shall  be  engaged ;  father  won't 
consent  to  our  being  married,  but  he  can't  prevent  us 
being  engaged.  You'll  see,  I'll  get  round  father  sooner 
or  later;  he'll  give  in." 

"  But  you  won't  get  round  Mount  Rorke ;  if  he  would 
only  come  here  and  see  you." 

"  He  won't  do  that ;  but  one  of  these  days  he'll  be  in 
London.  I  suppose  he  goes  to  the  Park  sometimes;  we'll 
go  too,  you'll  introduce  me — a  little  impromptu,  and  I'll 
see  if  I  can't  get  him  to  like  me." 

"  How  clever  you  are !  " 

"  I  understand  father." 

Still  it  required  all  Maggie's  adroitness  to  even  par- 
tially reconcile  Mr.  Brookes  to  Lord  Mount  Rorke's  let- 
ter. She  accepted  without  argument  that  marriage  in 
the  present  circumstances  was  out  of  the  question.  She 
even  went  so  far  as  to  cordially  assent  that  a  man  would 
be  a  fool  to  give  his  daughter  to  a  man  who  could  not 
settle  a  substantial  sum  of  money  upon  her,  and  she  only 
ventured  to  suggest  that  it  would  be  foolish  not  to  give 
Lord  Mount  Rorke  the  opportunity  of  changing  his  mind. 
She  spoke  of  his  immense  fortune,  and  exaggerated  it 
until  she  made  even  Berkins  seem  a  paltry  creature  in 
the  old  man's  eyes. 


219 

Frank  was  anxious  to  propitiate  Sally.  He  returned 
from  London  with  presents  for  her,  and  he  always  spoke 
to  her,  looking  at  her  admiringly. 

He  showed  much  anxiety,  and,  fearing  that  she  found 
it  dull  at  his  studio,  when  the  sisters  came  to  tea  he 
begged  her  to  give  him  Meason's  address.  Sally  tossed 
her  head;  she  had  had  enough  of  Meason,  and  her  man- 
ner left  no  doubt  as  to  her  sincerity.  But  happening  to 
meet  Meason  a  few  days  after  in  the  train,  Frank  slipped 
easily  into  asking  him  to  come  and  see  him;  and  in  the 
easy  atmosphere  of  the  studio  the  acquaintanceship  soon 
ripened  into  intimacy,  and  after  a  preliminary  ruffling 
of  plumage,  Sally  restored  her  old  sweetheart  to  all  the 
rights  of  wrong.  Life  went  well  amid  incessant  secrets, 
letter- writing,  and  tea  parties.  Grace  came  to  the  studio 
to  lunch  sometimes,  and  she  had  been  betrayed  into  a 
promise  not  to  say  a  word  about  Meason.  It  was  never 
ascertained  whether,  in  the  indiscretion  of  the  marital 
night,  she  had  betrayed  this  trust,  or  whether  some  jeal- 
ous enemy  had  spoken  or  written  to  Mr.  Brookes  on  the 
subject;  but  certain  it  is  that  one  joyful  day  when  Mea- 
son, Sally,  and  Maggie  were  eating  oysters,  and  Frank 
was  twisting  the  corkscrew  into  a  bottle  of  Chablis,  there 
came  an  ominous  ringing  at  the  door. 

"  I  wonder  who  that  can  be.     Shut  up,  Triss." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  father." 

"  He  is  in  London." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  about  that." 

"  No  matter — we  don't  want  to  see  them." 

"  Rather  not !  They  wouldn't  have  known  we  were 
here  had  it  not  been  for  that  dog." 

"  I  must  go  and  see  who  it  is.  Come  here,  sir;  come 
here,  you  brute." 

"  Supposing  it  is  father  ?  " 

"  Get  behind  that  piece  of  tapestry.  I'll  say  that 
Meason  and  I  were  having  some  oysters." 


220 

"  Come  here,  sir.  I'd  better  tie  up  that  dog — I  wonder 
who  it  is  ?  " 

"  Open  the  door." 

"  Oh !     Mr.  Brookes,  quite  an  unexpected  pleasure." 

"  I  have  come,  sir,  for  my  daughters." 

"  Your  daughters  ?  Your  daughters  are  not  here,  Mr. 
Brookes." 

"  I  have  reason  to  know  they  are  here,  and  I  will  not 
leave  without  them." 

"You  will  do  well  to  let  us  in,  Mr.  Escott;  we  are 
determined ' ' 

"  Who  are  you  ?    What  business  is  it  of  yours  ?  " 

"  Should  you  refuse  us  admission  we  are  resolved  to 
wait  here  till  evening,  till  midnight  if  necessary!"  ex- 
claimed Berkins.  "  I  say  again  you  wUl  do  well  to  ad- 
mit us,  and  so  avoid  a  scandal  on  the  green." 

"  You  can  come  in  if  you  like." 

"  Will  you  kindly  chain  up  that  dog  of  yours  ?  " 

"  Well,  this  is  coming  it  too  strong ;  this  is  a  little  too 
'  steep.*  If  Mr.  Brookes  refuses  to  believe  my  word  that 
his  daughters  are  not  here  he  may  come  in  and  look  for 
them,  and  to  facilitate  his  search  I  will  tie  up  the  dog — 
(the  dog  is  tied  up).  But  you,  what  brings  you  here.^ 
What  the  devil,  I  should  like  to  know,  brings  you  here, 
poking  your  nose  into  other  people's  business  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Brookes,  will  you  answer  him  ?  " 

"  I  must  decline  your  offer  to  admit  me  unaccom- 
panied by  my  son-in-law.     We  shall  not  stay  long." 

"  All  this  seems  to  me  very  extraordinary,  but  since 
you  wish  it,  Mr.  Brookes,  pray  enter." 

"  Is  that  dog  tied  up  quite  securely  ?  " 

"  Quite.     I  think  you  know  Mr.  Meason?  " 

"  Mr.  Meason  knows  very  well  that  I  do  not  wish  to 
know  him." 

"  If  you  only  come  here  to  insult  my  guest,  the  sooner 
you  go  out  the  better.     Had  I  known  that  you  intended 


221 

to  behave  in  this  fashion  I  should  have  left  you  standing 
outside  till  morning.     I'll  not  have " 

"Never  mind,  Escott;  I'm  off.  Mr.  Brookes  and  I 
are  no  longer  on  speaking  terms,  that's  all!  I'll  see 
you  later  on." 

"  Don't  go,  pray." 

"  I  think  I  must." 

"  I  am  surprised,  Frank,"  said  Mr.  Brookes,  when 
Meason  was  gone,  "  that  you  should  seek  your  friends 
among  the  enemies  of  my  family." 

"  We  will  not  discuss  that  question  now.  I  never 
heard  of  such  conduct — you  force  your  way  into  my 
studio,  and  apparently  for  no  purpose  but  to  insult  my 
guest.    You  see  your  daughters  are  not  here." 

"  I  am  by  no  means  satisfied  with  that,"  said  Berkins, 
opening  a  door.  "  I  must  see  behind  that  piece  of  tap- 
estry." 

"  No,  you  shall  not.  I  have  had  just  about  enough 
of  this.  How  dare  you?  God's  truth "  and  as  Ber- 
kins seemed  determined  to  continue  his  search,  Frank 
caught  him  by  the  collar. 

But  Berkins  was  tall  and  strong,  and  showed  no  in- 
tention of  allowing  himself  to  be  thrown  out.  His  long 
legs  were  soon  extended  here  and  there;  his  body  was 
sometimes  bent  back  by  Frank's  weight,  once  he  had 
succeeded  in  nearly  throwing  Frank  over  on  the  sofa. 
Mr.  Brookes  had  fled  to  the  door,  which,  in  his  excitement, 
he  failed  to  open,  and  the  struggle  was  continued  until 
at  last,  maddened  by  a  most  tight  and  tempting  aspect 
of  Berkins's  thigh,  Triss  broke  his  collar,  and  in  a  couple 
of  bounds  reached  and  fixed  his  teeth  deep  in  the  flesh. 
"  Triss,  you  brute,  leave  go."  But  Triss  clung  to  the 
long-desired  thigh.  "  I'll  twist  his  tail,  it  will  make  him 
leave  go." 

With  a  savage  yelp  of  pain  the  dog  turned  on  his  mas- 
ter and  was  hauled  instantly  off  Berkins's  thigh. 


222 

"  I  need  hardly  say  that  so  far  as  the  dog  is  concerned, 
I  regret,  and  I  am  truly  sorry  for  what  has  occurred." 

"  Sir,  do  you  not  see  what  a  state  I  am  in ;  do  not 
stand  there  making  excuses,  but  lend  me  your  hand- 
kerchief.    I  shall  bleed  to  death  if  you  don't." 

"  Shall  I  tie  it  up  for  you?  " 

"  If  those  girls  there  would  only  fetch  a  doctor." 

Mr.  Brookes  could  not  refrain  from  foolish  laughter, 
and  in  a  moment  of  wretched  despair  he  declared  that 
it  would  be  all  the  same  in  a  hundred  years  time — a  re- 
mark which  would  not  have  failed  to  irritate  Berkins  if 
he  had  not  fainted. 


CHAP.  XIII. 

NEXT  day  Willy  called  at  the  studio,  and  Frank  told 
him  what  had  occurred. 

"  But  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  come  to  the  Manor 
House,"  said  Willy.  "  If  you  will  only  say  something 
about  the  Measons,  I  think  it  can  be  made  all  right." 

"No,  I'm  not  going  to  turn  against  Meason;  I  have 
always  found  him  a  good  fellow.  I  know  nothing  about 
his  flirtation  with  Sally." 

"  No  more  do  I ;  I  think  it  has  been  exaggerated,  but, 
as  you  know,  I  never  interfere.  I  wish  you  would  come 
in  to  dinner  one  night." 

"  Supposing  I  were  to  meet  Berkins  ?  " 

Willy  stroked  his  moustache. 

"  No,  it  is  quite  impossible  that  I  could  return  to  the 
Manor  House.  Your  father  behaved  in  a  way — well,  I 
will  not  say  what  I  think  of  it." 

"  Berkins  hasn't  been  to  the  City  since.  Grace  was 
over  here  yesterday,  she  says  he  limps  about  the  garden. 
He'll  never  forgive  you;  he  says  that  you  didn't  call  the 
dog  off  at  once." 


228 

"  That's  a  lie ;  and  I  said,  *  So  far  as  the  incident  with 
the  dog  is  concerned,  I  am  very  sorry.*  " 

"  I  think  that  made  him  more  angry  than  anything 
else;  he  thought  you  were  laughing  at  him." 

"  I  was  not.  It  was  most  unfortunate.  I  shall  not 
give  Maggie  up.  I  am  writing  to-morrow  or  next  day 
to  Mount  Rorke." 

All  were  agreed  that  things  must  come  right  sooner 
or  later.  Maggie  fought  for  her  lover,  and  emphatically 
asserted  her  engagement.  She  yielded  on  one  point  only 
— not  to  visit  the  studio;  but  she  maintained  her  right  in 
theory  and  in  practice  to  go  where  she  liked  with  him  in 
train  or  in  cart,  to  walk  with  him  on  the  clifF,  to  lunch 
with  him  at  Mutton's.  They  found  pleasure  in  thus 
affirming  their  love,  and  it  pleased  them  to  see  they  were 
observed,  and  to  hear  that  they  were  spoken  about. 
Nevertheless  the  string  that  sung  their  happiness  had 
slipped  a  little,  and  the  note  was  now  not  quite  so  clear 
or  true.  Frank  could  not  go  to  the  Manor  House;  Mag- 
gie could  not  go  to  the  studio.  Whether  Mount  Rorke 
would  consent  to  their  marriage  perplexed  them  as  it 
had  not  done  before. 

The  summer  fades,  the  hills  grow  grey,  and  a  salt 
wind  blew  up  from  the  sea,  blackening  the  trees,  and 
the  beauty  of  autumn  was  done.  Frank  thought  of  Ire- 
land, and  what  personal  intercession  might  achieve.  She 
begged  of  him  to  go,  and  he  promised  to  write  to  her 
every  day. 

"  Every  day,  darling,  or  I  shall  be  miserable." 

"  Every  day." 

"  Arrived  safe  after  a  very  rough  passage.  Every  one 
was  ill,  I  most  of  all." 

She  received  a  post-card: — 

"  It  was  raining  cats  and  dogs  when  I  got  out  of  the 
train.     Moimt  Rorke  sent  a  car  to  meet  me;  the  result 


224 

is  that  I  am  in  bed  with  a  bad  cold.  The  house  is  full 
of  company — people  I  have  known,  or  known  of,  since 
I  was  a  boy;  we  shall  begin  pheasant-shooting  in  a  few 
days.  When  I  am  out  of  bed  I  shall  write  a  long  letter. 
Do  you  write  to  me;  I  shall  be  awfully  disappointed  if  I 
do  not  get  a  letter  to-morrow  morning." 

Extract  from  a  letter: — 

"  Mount  Rorke  is  considered  to  be  a  handsome  place, 
but  as  I  have  known  it  from  childhood,  as  my  earliest 
memories  are  of  it,  I  cannot  see  it  with  the  eyes  of  a 
professed  scenery  hunter.  I  have  loved  it  always,  but  I 
do  not  think  I  ever  loved  it  more  than  now,  for  now  I 
think  that  one  day  I  shall  give  it  to  you.  Should  that 
day  come — and  it  will  come — what  happiness  it  will  be 
to  walk  with  you  under  the  old  trees,  made  lovelier  by 
your  presence,  to  pass  down  the  glades  to  the  river, 
watching  your  shadow  on  the  grass  and  your  image  in 
the  stream.  We  will  roam  together  through  the  old 
castle,  and  I  will  show  you  the  little  bed  I  used  to  sleep 
in,  the  school-room  where  I  learned  my  lessons.  When  I 
entered  the  old  room  I  saw  in  imagination — and  oh,  how 
clearly ! — the  face  of  my  governess ;  and  how  easily  I  see 
her  in  the  corridor  she  used  to  walk  down  to  get  to  her 
room. 

"  Poor,  dear,  old  thing,  I  wonder  what  has  become  of 
her! 

"  I  saw  again  the  pictures  that  stirred  my  childish 
fancy,  and  whose  meaning  I  once  vainly  strove  to  decipher. 

"  I  came  to  live  here  when  I  was  four,  immediately 
after  my  father's  death.  I  can  just  remember  coming 
here.  I  remember  Mount  Rorke  taking  me  up  in  his 
arms  and  kissing  me.  I  will  not  say  there  is  no  place 
like  home — I  do  not  believe  that;  but  certainly  no  place 
seems  so  real.  Every  spot  of  ground  has  its  own  par- 
ticular recollections.  Every  bend  of  the  avenue  evokes 
some  incident  of  cliildish  life  (in  Ireland  we  call  any 
road  leading  to  a  house  an  avenue,  even  if  it  is  absolutely 
bare  of  trees;  we  also  speak  of  rooks  as  crows,  and  these 
two  provincialisms  jarred  on  my  ear  after  my  long  stay 


225 

in  Sussex).  Mount  Rorke  is  covered  with  trees — great 
woods  of  beech  and  fir — and  at  the  end  of  every  vista 
you  see  a  piece  of  blue  mountain.  A  river  passes  behind 
the  castle,  winding  through  the  park;  there  are  bridges, 
and  swans  float  about  the  sedges,  and  there  are  deer  in 
the  glades.  The  garden, — I  do  not  know  if  you  would 
like  the  garden;  it  is  old-fashioned — full  of  old-fashioned 
flowers — convolvuluses,  Michaelmas  daisies,  marigolds; 
hedges  clipped  into  all  sorts  of  strange  and  close  shapes. 
There  is  a  beautiful  avenue  behind  the  garden  (an  avenue 
in  the  English  sense  of  the  word)  where  you  may  pace  to 
and  fro  and  feel  an  exquisite  sense  of  solitude;  for  when 
the  castle  had  passed  out  of  the  hands  of  Irish  princes — 
that  is  to  say,  brigands — it  was  turned  into  a  monastery, 
and  I  often  think,  as  I  look  on  the  mossy  trees — the 
progeny  of  those  under  whose  leafage  the  monks  told 
their  beads — that  all  happened  that  I  might  throw  my 
arm  about  you  some  beautiful  day,  and  whisper,  'My  wife, 
this  is  yours.'  " 

"  How  beautifully  he  writes,"  said  Sally  reflectively. 

"  You  never  had  a  lover  who  wrote  to  you  like  that. 
Do  you  remember  how  Jimmy  used  to  write  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  how  he  wrote  to  you,  but  his  letters  to 
me,  I  will  say  that,  were  quite  as  nice  as  anything  Frank 
could  write.  You  needn't  toss  your  head,  you  are  not 
Lady  Mount  Rorke  yet." 

Sally  refused  to  hear,  but  presently,  seeing  a  cloud  on 
her  sister's  face,  and  thinking  the  letter  contained  some 
piece  of  unpleasantness,  she  relented,  and  pressed  her  to 
continue. 

"The  house  is  full  of  people — people  whom  I  have 
known  all  my  life — and  they  make  a  great  deal  of  me. 
I  have  to  tell  them  about  Italy,  and  they  ask  me  absurd 
questions  about  Michael  Angelo  or  Titian,  Leonardo  or 
Watteau.  .  .  .  The  house  party  is  a  large  one,  and  we 
have  people  to  dinner  every  day;  and  in  the  evening 
the  drawing-room,  with  its  grim  oak  and  escutcheons 
and  rich  modern  furniture,  is  a  pretty  sight  indeed.    There 


226 

is  a  lady  here  whom  I  knew  in  London,  Lady  Seveley; 
and  I  have  had  suspicions  that  Mount  Rorke  would  like 
me  to  marry  her.  But  she  has  the  reputation  of  being 
rather  fast,  so  perhaps  the  old  gentleman  is  allowing  his 
thoughts  to  wander  where  they  should  not.  I  hope  not 
for  his  sake,  for  I  hear  she  is  devoted  to  a  young  Irishman, 
a  Mr.  Fletcher,  a  journalist  in  London.  I  met  them  at 
Reading  once  in  most  suspicious  circumstances.  He  is 
the  son  of  a  large  grazier,  one  of  my  uncle's  tenants,  and 
she  is,  I  suppose,  so  infatuated  that  she  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  of  calling  on  his  family.  She  was  careful 
not  to  speak  of  her  intentions  to  anybody,  but  waited 
until  she  got  a  favourable  opportunity  and  slipped  off  to 
pay  her  visit.  The  Fletchers  live  about  half  a  mile  from 
the  castle.  I  was  riding  that  way,  and  met  her  coming  out 
of  their  house.  I  got  off  my  horse  and  we  walked  back 
together.  I  hope  Mount  Rorke  will  not  hear  of  her 
ladyship's  escapade;  he  would  be  very  angry,  for  the 
Fletchers  are  people  who  would  be  asked  to  have  some- 
thing to  cat  in  the  housekeeper's  room  if  they  called  at 
the  Castle.  In  London  one  knows  everybody,  but  in  the 
country  we  are  more  conservative." 

"  I  hope  she  won't  cut  you  out,"  said  Sally.  "  It 
would  be  a  sell  for  you  if  she  did.     Go  on." 

"  No,  I  shan't,  you  are  too  insulting." 

"  Who  began  it  ?  You  told  me  that  I  didn't  get  such 
nice  letters  as  you.     Pray  go  on." 

"  I  do  not  know  if  you  would  think  her  handsome.  I 
don't.  She  is,  however,  an  excellent  musician;  we  play 
duets  together  every  evening,  to  Mount  Rorke's  intense 
delight.  You  know  my  dialogue  between  a  lady  and  a 
gentleman  }  She  has  written  it  down  for  me  and  corrected 
a  few  mistakes;  I  think  I  shall  publish  it.  Darling,  I 
love  you  better  than  any  one  in  the  world;  you  are  all 
the  world  to  me;  try  to  love  me  a  little — you  will  never 
find  any  one  to  love  you  as  I  do." 

"  Well,  you  can't  find  anything  peculiarly  disagreeable 
to  say  about  that,  I  think." 


227 
Extract  from  another  letter: — 

"  All  the  visitors  have  gone ;  Mount  Rorke  and  I  are 
quite  alone.  He  is  kindness  in  itself,  and  does  not  bother 
me  about  his  memoirs;  but  from  what  I  hear  that  book 
will  make  one  of  the  biggest  sensations  ever  made  in  the 
literary  world.  I  want  him  to  publish  it  now,  but  he  only 
smiles  and  shakes  his  head.  He  says:  'What  is  the  use 
of  setting  the  world  talking  about  you  when  you  are 
alive;  as  long  as  I  am  alive  I  can  see  those  I  want  to 
see,  and  be  with  them  far  more  personally  than  I  could 
by  placing  in  their  hands  three  volumes  in  8vo;  the  8vos 
are  only  useful  when  you  have  passed  into  darkness,  and 
are  not  yet  reconciled  to  dying  quite  out  of  the  minds  of 
men.  I  do  not  desire  to  be  remembered  by  those  who  will 
live  three  hundred  years  hence,  but  I  confess  that  I 
should  like  to  modulate  the  pace  of  forgetfulness  accord- 
ing to  my  fancy,  and  be  remembered,  let  us  say,  for  the 
next  sixty  or  seventy  years.  I  find  no  fault  with  death 
but  its  abruptness,  and  that  I  hope  to  be  able  to  correct. 
The  vulgar  and  most  usual  plan  is  children,  but  children 
are  no  anodyne  to  oblivion,  whereas  a  good  book  in  a 
certain  measure  is.' 

"  These  are  almost  the  words  Mount  Rorke  used,  and 
I  quote  them  as  exactly  as  possible,  so  that  you  may 
see  what  kind  of  man  he  is.  We  pulled  our  chairs  round 
to  the  fire  and  had  a  real  good  talk.  I  know  no  better 
company  than  Mount  Rorke.  He  has  seen  everything, 
read  everything,  and  known  everybody  worth  knowing; 
he  is  a  mine  of  information,  and,  what  is  far  better,  he 
is  a  complete  man  of  the  world;  and  long  contact  with 
the  world  has  left  him  a  little  cynical,  otherwise  he  is 
perfect.  I  told  him  the  story  about  Berkins,  and  he 
laughed;  I  never  saw  him  laugh  so  before;  and  when  I 
told  him  that  I  had  told  Berkins,  as  he  was  tying  up  his 
leg,  that  so  far  as  the  incident  with  the  dog  was  con- 
cerned, I  regretted  deeply  what  had  occurred,  he  could 
not  contain  himself.  He  rang  the  bell,  and  we  had  old 
Triss  up.  He  asked  a  great  deal  about  you;  I  leave  you 
to  imagine  what  I  said.  How  did  he  expect  me  to  describe 
my  darling?    I  told  him  of  your  subtle,  fascinating  ways, 


228 

of  your  picturesque  attitudes,  and  your  exquisite  little 
black  eyes.  '  I  think  I  see  her,'  he  said ;  *  little  eyes  that 
light  up  are  infinitely  more  interesting  than  those  big, 
limpid,  silly  eyes  that  everybody  admires.'  I  am  now 
doing  a  water-colour  sketch  from  the  photograph — the 
one  in  which  you  stand  with  your  hands  behind  your  back 
and  your  head  on  one  side — for  him.  I  am  getting  on 
with  it  pretty  well.  Ah !  if  only  I  had  you  here  for  an 
hour  (I  should  like  to  have  you  here  for  ever,  of  course; 
but  now  I  am  speaking  artistically,  not  humanly),  I  think 
I  could  get  it  really  like  you;  there  are  one  or  two  things 
that  the  photo  does  not  give  me.  I  shall  send  the  sketch 
to  Dublin  to  be  framed;  it  will  be  a  nice  present  for 
Mount  Rorke. 

"  My  darling,  you  must  not  be  anxious ;  all  will  come 
right  in  time — have  a  little  patience.  He  is  already  much 
more  reconciled  to  the  match  than  he  was  when  I  arrived, 
and  if  your  father  will  refrain  from  speaking  too  much 
about  that  hateful  question,  I  am  sure  that  all  difficulties 
can  be  surmounted." 

She  wrote  to  him  three  or  four  times  a  week,  and  on 
beautiful  hand-made  paper,  delicately  scented. 
Extract  from  a  letter: — 

"  We  went  up  to  town  yesterday  by  the  ten  o'clock 
train  West  Brighton;  and  so  that  we  might  have  more 
money  to  spend,  we  went  third  class.  Father  doesn't 
like  us  going  third  class,  but  I  don't  think  it  matters  if 
you  get  in  with  nice  people.  We  were  very  jolly.  The 
Shaws  went  with  us.  They  are  very  nice  girls.  They 
had  to  leave  us  at  Victoria,  and  I  and  my  cousin,  Agnes 
Keating,  went  shopping  together.  We  met  the  Harrisons 
at  Russell  &  Allen's.  We  saw  there  some  lovely  dresses 
— I  wish  you  had  been  with  us,  for  I  have  confidence  in 
your  taste,  and  when  I  choose  a  thing  myself  I  am  never 
sure  that  I  like  it.     The  assistant  was  so  polite;  she  told 

me  to  ask  for  Miss  ;  she  saia  she  would  like  to  fit 

me.  Sally  was  coming  up  with  us,  but  she  changed  her 
mind  and  remained  at  home.  I  was  very  glad,  for  she  is 
wretchedly  cross,  and  not  looking  at  all  well.    You  would 


229 

not  admire  her  in  the  least;  she  is  growing  very  yellow. 
But  I  don't  mean  to  be  ill-natured,  so  we'll  let  Sally 
bide,  as  we  say  in  Sussex.  After  Russell  &  Allen's  we 
went  to  Blanchard's,  and  had  a  nice  lunch.  Grace  was 
in  town;  she  chaperoned  us,  and  paid  for  everything;  it 
was  very  kind  of  her.  Then  we  went  to  the  theatre,  and 
saw  a  play  which  we  did  not  care  about  much.  There 
was  a  very  stupid  '  tart '  in  it.  I  do  like  '  gadding,'  don't 
I.''  But,  oh,  my  darling  Frank,  gadding  is  not  really 
gadding  without  you.  How  I  miss  you,  how  we  all  miss 
you,  but  I  especially.  The  Keatings  came  over  to  tea 
to-day,  and  they  asked  about  you.  Blanche  wants  you 
to  write  something  in  her  album,  and  she  admired  im- 
mensely the  drawing  you  gave  me.  She  is  very  artistic 
in  her  tastes ;  I  think  you  would  like  her. 

"  But  I  have  a  bit  of  news  that  I  think  will  amuse  you. 
You  remember  Mrs.  Horlock's  old  dog — not  the  blind 
Angel;  he's  old  too.  But  I  mean  the  real  old  dog, — the 
one  twenty  years  old,  that  once  belonged  to  a  butcher. 
He  never  smelt  very  sweet,  as  you  know,  but  latterly  he 
was  unbearable,  and  the  General  resolved  on  a  silent  and 
secret  destruction.  He  purchased  in  Brighton  a  bottle  of 
chloroform.  It  was  the  dead  of  the  night  and  pitch  dark. 
However,  he  reached  the  end  of  the  passage  in  safety; 
but  suddenly  he  uttered  a  fearful  shriek  and  dropped  the 
chloroform.  He  thought  he  had  seen  a  ghost;  but  it  was 
only  Mrs.  Horlock,  who  was  going  her  rounds,  letting 
down  the  mouse-traps  and  supplying  the  little  creatures 
with  food.  The  General  blurted  out  various  excuses.  He 
said  that  he  had  come  to  relieve  the  cock  parrot's  tooth- 
ache— that  he  feared  the  Circassian  goat  was  suffering 
from  spinal  complaint  and  the  squirrels  from  neuralgia. 
But  his  protestations  proved  unavailing,  and  now  he  eats 
his  meals  in  silence.  And  to  make  matters  worse,  the  old 
dog  did  die  a  few  days  after — the  General  says  from  old 
age,  but  Mrs.  Horlock  avows  that  his  death  resulted  from 
fright.  '  He  was  a  sweet,  cunning  old  thing,  and  no 
doubt  knew  all  about  that  plan  to  destroy  him.'  I  think 
this  would  make  an  excellent  subject  for  a  comic  sketch; 
I   wish   you  would  do   one — the   General   dropping  the 


230 

bottle;  Mrs.  Horlock,  surrounded  by  closed  mouse-traps 
and  crumbs,  sternly  upbraiding  him. 

"  I  see  lots  of  Emily  Pierce.  Every  Sunday  I  have 
tea  with  her,  and  sometimes  lunch;  but  she  doesn't  come 
here.  I  am  afraid  I  couldn't  get  on  at  all  without  her; 
we  do  everything  together,  and  we  hit  it  off  so  well. 

"  Sally  has  been  staying  in  Kent.  I  do  not  know  what's 
up,  but  she  seems  to  see  everything  couleur  de  rose;  every- 
thing in  Kent  is  better  in  her  estimation  than  anywhere 
else.  The  men  dance  so  much  better  for  one  thing.  I 
am  glad  she  is  so  happy,  and  I  wish  she  would  get  married 
and  stay  there.  Father  says  he  has  a  cough  that  tears 
him  to  pieces,  but  I  haven't  heard  it  yet." 

The  elementary  notion  of  a  woman  in  love  is  to  sur- 
round, to  envelop  the  man  she  loves,  with  her  individual- 
ity, and  to  draw  him  from  all  other  influences.  And  the 
woman  in  love  strives  to  accomplish  this  by  ceaseless 
reiteration  of  herself  or  himself  seen  through  herself. 
So  Maggie  with  her  nervous,  highly-strung,  febrile  tem- 
perament could  not  refrain  from  constantly  striking  the 
lyre  of  love.  Her  hands  were  for  ever  on  the  chords. 
Letters  and  notes  of  all  kinds;  impetuous  messages  ask- 
ing him  when  he  would  return;  letters  apologising  for 
her  selfishness — he  had  better  remain  with  Mount  Rorke 
until  his  consent  had  been  obtained ;  resolutions  and  irres- 
olutions, ardours,  lassitudes,  f orgetfulness  followed  fast  in 
strange  and  incomprehensible  contradiction.  And  Frank 
was  asked  daily  to  perform  some  small  task.  There  was 
always  something;  and  Frank  imdertook  all  he  was  asked 
to  do,  for  he  loved  to  be  as  much  as  possible  in  that  circle 
of  life  in  which  his  sweetheart  lived,  and  to  feel  her 
presence  about  him. 

Extract  from  a  letter: — 

"Mount  Rorke  and  I  had  a  long  and  serious  talk  about 
you  last  night.  He  is  against  the  marriage,  but  then  he  is 
against  marriage  in  general.  He  said  with  his  quiet, 
cynical  laugh,  '  I  daresay   she  is   a  pretty  girl — I   can 


231 

read  the  truth  through  your  romantic  descriptions.  I 
am  convinced  that  she  is  very  charming.  But  are  you 
quite  sure  that  you  will  never  meet  another  equally  charm- 
ing girl?  Remember  the  world  is  a  very  big  place,  and 
the  stock  of  women  is  large;  are  you  sure  that  you  will 
be  able  to  enjoy  the  charm  which  now  rules  and  enchants 
you  for  thirty,  forty  years  without  wearying  of  it  ?  These 
are  the  questions  you  have  to  consider,  which  marriage 
entails.'  I  need  hardly  tell  you  what  answer  I  made,  and 
how  I  tried  to  convince  him  that  your  charms  are  those 
that  a  man  capable  of  appreciating  them  could  not  weary 
of.  Indeed  I  think  I  made  him  rather  a  neat  answer — I 
said  there  are  books  in  one  volume,  in  two  volumes,  in 
three  volumes,  and  there  are  books  that  you  can  take 
down  and  read  at  any  time.  He  laughed ;  it  rather  tickled 
his  fancy.  And  he  said,  '  Quite  true,  there  are  some  books 
and  some  women  that  one  never  tires  of — that  is  to  say, 
that  some  people  never  tire  of.  I  haven't  been  so  fortu- 
nate or  unfortunate,  but  that  by  the  way.  I  admit  such 
cases  may  occur.  I  will  go  further — I  will  admit  that  a 
man's  life  may  be  made  or  marred  by  his  taking  to  himself 
a  wife ;  and  if  Miss  Brookes  were  a  really  nice  girl — if  she 
were  the  one  girl  in  a  million,  and  if  I  were  sure  that 
your  passion  for  each  other  has  its  root  in  deeper  and 
more  lasting  sympathies  than  those  of  the  skin  (these 
were  his  exact  words) — believe  me,  my  dear  Frank,  I 
should  not  think  of  opposing  the  marriage.  I  shall  be 
in  London  during  the  season,  and  no  doubt  an  occasion 
will  arise,  of  which  I  promise  you  to  avail  myself,  of 
making  this  model  young  lady's  acquaintance.  I  will 
tell  you  what  I  think  of  her;  she  won't  deceive  me,  let 
her  try  how  she  will.  There  is  only  one  thing  I  bar — one 
thing  must  not  be,  one  thing  I  will  not  tolerate — a  bad 
marriage.'  I  lost  my  temper  for  a  moment,  but  Mount 
Rorke  did  not  lose  his,  and  I  soon  came  round.  It  is 
annoying  to  be  spoken  to  in  that  way;  but  I  remembered 
that  he  had  not  seen  you,  and  I  consoled  myself  by 
thinking  of  how  great  his  conversion  will  be  when  he 
does.  My  only  fear  is  that  he'll  want  to  marry  you  him- 
self.    So,  you  see,  my  own  darling,  my  uncle  is  on  the 


232 

*  give,'  and  we  shall  win  soon  and  easily.  The  only  real 
obstacle  is  your  father's  pig-headedness  on  all  matters 
in  which  money  enters.  I  think  with  terror  of  his  meet- 
ing with  Mount  Rorke.  If  he  speaks  to  Mount  Rorke  as 
he  spoke  to  me,  my  uncle  will  take  up  his  hat  and  wish 
him  good-morning.  Do  you  exert  all  your  influence.  Do 
leave  no  stone  unturned.    All  depends  upon  you." 

Extract  from  another  letter: — 

"  I  am  weary  of  this  place,  and  I  long  to  see  you.  My 
longing  is  such  that  I  can  resist  it  no  longer.  Besides, 
nothing  would  be  gained  by  remaining  here.  Mount 
Rorke  will  not  say  more  than  he  has  said.  In  a  few  days 
— think  of  that — I  shall  be  with  you.  With  what  eager- 
ness I  look  forward.  How  gladly  I  shall  see  the  train 
leave  the  dreary  bogs  and  the  blue  mountains  of  the  West 
and  pass  into  the  pasture  lands  of  Meath;  how  gladly  I 
shall  hail  the  brown,  slobber-faced  city  of  Dublin;  with 
what  delight  I  shall  step  on  board  the  packet — I  shall 
not  think  of  sea  sickness — and  watch  the  line  of  the  low 
coast  disappear,  then  the  Welsh  mountains  and  castles, 
looking  so  like  an  illustrated  history  of  England.  I  must 
spend  two  days  in  London,  alas !  I  must  order  some 
new  clothes.  Victoria  Station,  with  all  its  doors  and 
cab  stands,  and  book-stalls,  the  Sussex  scenery,  the  wood- 
lands, the  Downs,  the  plunging  through  tunnels,  and  then 
you.  Darling,  I  cannot  believe  that  such  happiness  is  in 
store  for  me." 

All  happened  as  he  had  anticipated.  At  Victoria  the 
usual  diflBculties  had  arisen  about  the  dog.  Triss  was 
growling,  the  guard  was  cringing,  and,  with  reference  to 
no  stoppage  before  we  come  to  Redhill,  the  necessity  of 
a  muzzle  was  being  argued. 

"  I  am  certain  it  is  she,"  and  he  followed  with  his  eyes 
the  tall,  swinging  figure  in  the  black  cloth  dress.  Then 
he  saw  the  clear  plump  profile,  so  white,  of  Lizzie  Baker. 

"  Here,  give  me  the  chain,  I'll  tie  the  dog  up." 

"  But  the  muzzle,  sir." 


238 

A  muzzle  was  procured,  and  Frank  ran  to  the  third 
class  carriage  where  he  had  seen  Lizzie  enter. 

"  Lizzie !  Lizzie !" 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Escott,  who  would  have  thought  of  seeing 
you !    It  is  such  a  time " 

"Yes,  isn't  it;  how  long?  But  are  you  going  to 
Brighton.?" 

"  Yes." 

"  So  am  I ;  but — let  me  get  you  a  first-class  ticket. 
Guard,  have  I  time  to  change  my  ticket.''  " 

"  No,  sir,  the  train  is  going  to  start ;  get  in." 

"  Do  you  get  out,  Lizzie ;  I'll  pay  the  difference  at 
Brighton." 

"  No  time  for  changing  now,  sir ;  are  you  getting  into 
this  carriage?  " 

He  could  not  forego  the  pleasure  of  being  with  Lizzie. 
An  old  woman  with  a  provision  basket  on  her  lap  drew 
her  skirts  aside  and  made  way  for  him;  there  were  three 
dirtily  dressed  girls — probably  shop  girls;  they  sat  whis- 
pering together,  a  little  troubled  by  the  publicity;  there 
were  two  youths,  shabbily  dressed,  their  worn  boots  and 
trousers  covered  with  London  mud.  He  was  surprised, 
and  he  did  not  for  a  moment  understand  or  realise  his 
company,  Frank  had  never  been  in  a  third-class  car- 
riage before. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  won't  be  comfortable  here." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  shall;  I'd  just  as  soon  travel  in  one  class 
as  another — much  sooner  when  it  means  being  with  you." 

"  None  of  your  nonsense;  I  see  you  haven't  changed. 
Well,  who'd  have  thought  it?  Just  fancy  meeting  you, 
and  after  all  this  time." 

"  How  long  is  it  ?  It  must  be  nearly  two  years.  I 
haven't  seen  you  since  that  day  we  went  up  the  river." 

"  Yes,  you  have." 

"  No ;  where  did  I  see  you  since  ?  " 


234 

"  At  the  bar ;  I  didn't  leave  the  *  Gaiety '  for  several 
days  after." 

"  No  more  you  did ;  I  remember  now.  But  why  did 
you  leave  without  letting  me  know  where  you  were 
going?  " 

"  I  didn't  know  I  was  leaving  tUl  the  morning,  and 
I  left  in  the  afternoon.  A  lot  of  us  were  changed  sud- 
denly. The  firm  couldn't  get  enough  young  ladies  to  do 
the  work  at  the  Exhibition." 

"  But  you  didn't  leave  an  address." 

"  Yes,  I  did." 

"  No,  you  didn't ;  I  asked  the  manager,  and  he  told 
me  you  had  left  no  address.  They  didn't  know  where 
you  had  gone." 

"  Did  he  say  so  ?  You  mean  Mr.  Fairlie,  I  suppose — 
now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  it  is  the  rule  of  the  firm  not 
to  give  information  about  the  young  ladies.     I  am  sorry." 

"Are  you?" 

"  I  am,  really.  We  had  a  very  pleasant  day  up  the 
river — Reading;  you  took  me  to  Reading." 

"  Yes ;  but  you  would  never  come  again." 

"  Wouldn't  I  ?  I  suppose  I  couldn't  find  time — I  did 
enjoy  myself.     What  a  lovely  day  it  was." 

"  Yes ;  and  do  you  remember  how  like  a  beautiful 
smile  the  river  lay?  And  do  you  remember  the  bul- 
rushes? I  rowed  you  in  among  the  rushes;  you  wet  the 
sleeve  of  your  dress  plunging  your  arm  in.  I  remember 
it,  that  white  plump  arm." 

"  Get  along  with  you." 

"  I  wanted  to  make  a  sketch  of  you  leaning  over  the 
boatside  with  your  lapful  of  water-lilies;  I  wish  I  had." 

"  I  wish  you  had,  too;  you  wrote  a  little  poem  instead. 
It  was  very  pretty,  but  I  should  have  liked  the  picture 
better.  You  gave  me  the  poem  next  day  when  you  came 
in  to  lunch.  You  had  lunch  at  the  bar,  and  I  was  so 
cross   with   you   because   you   said   I   hadn't   wiped   the 


236 

glass.  It  was  all  done  to  annoy  me  because  I  had  been 
talking  to  that  tall,  rather  stout  young  man,  with  the 
dark  moustache,  whom  you  were  so  jealous  of.  Don't 
you  remember  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  remember ;  and  I  believe  it  was  that  fellow 
who  prevented  you  from  coming  out  with  me  again." 

"  No,  it  wasn't ;  but  don't  speak  so  loud,  all  these 
people  are  listening  to  you." 

Frank  met  the  round  stare  of  the  girls;  and,  turning 
from  the  dormant  curiosity  of  the  old  woman,  he  said: 

"  Do  you  remember  the  locks,  how  frightened  you 
were;  you  had  never  been  through  a  lock  before;  and 
the  beautiful  old  red  brick  house  showing  upon  the  lofty 
woods ;  and  coming  back  in  the  calm  of  the  evening,  pass- 
ing the  different  boats,  the  one  where  the  girls  lay  back 
in  the  arms  of  the  young  men,  the  flapping  sail,  and  the 
dreamy  influences  of  the  woods  where  we  climbed  and 
looked  into  space  over  the  railing?  " 

"  At  the  green-table — don't  you  remember  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  remember  every  hour  of  that  day ;  we  had 
lunch  at  the  '  Roebuck.'  " 

"  You  haven't  spoken  of  the  lady  we  saw  there.  Lady 
Something — I  forget  what  you  said  her  name  was;  you 
said  she  had  been  making  up  to  you." 

"  I  dined  with  her  one  night,  and  we  went  to  the 
theatre." 

"  You  may  do  that  without  it  being  said  that  you  are 
making  up  to  a  gentleman." 

"  Of  course ;  I  should  never  think  of  saying  you  made 
up  to  me." 

"  I  should  hope  not,  indeed." 

"  I  should  never  think  of  accusing  you  of  having  made 
up  to  me;  you  have  always  treated  me  very  badly." 

Lizzie  did  not  answer.  He  looked  at  her,  puzzled  and 
perplexed,  and  he  hoped  that  neither  the  girls  nor  the 
old  lady  had  understood. 


236 

"  I  am  sorry ;  I  really  didn't  mean  to  offend  you.  All 
I  meant  to  say  was  that  the  lady  we  saw  at  the  '  Roe- 
buck '  had  been  rather  civil  to  me ;  had — well  I  don't 
know  how  to  put  it — shown  an  inclination  to  flirt  with 
me — will  that  suit  you? — and  that  I  had  not  availed 
myself  of  my  chances  because  I  was  in  love  with  you." 

Encouraged  by  a  sunny  smile,  Frank  continued :  "  You 
wouldn't  listen  to  me;  you  were  very  cruel." 

"  I  am  sure  I  didn't  mean  to  be  cruel ;  I  went  out  on 
the  river  with  you,  and  we  had  a  very  pleasant  day.  You 
didn't  say  then  I  was  cruel." 

"  No,  you  were  very  nice  that  day ;  it  was  the  happiest 
day  of  my  life.  I  was  in  love  with  you ;  I  shall  never  care 
for  any  one  as  I  cared  for  you." 

"  I  don't  believe  you." 

"  I  swear  it  is  true.  When  you  left  the  *  Gaiety  '  I 
searched  London  for  you.  If  you  had  only  cared  for 
me  we  might  have  been  very  happy.  As  sure  as  a  fellow 
loves  a  woman,  so  sure  is  she  to  like  some  other  chap. 
Tell  me,  why  did  you  go  away  and  leave  no  address  ?  " 

"  I  did  leave  an  address." 

"  Well,  we  won't  discuss  that.  Why  didn't  you  write 
to  me?  You  knew  my  address.  It's  no  use  saying  you 
didn't." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  was  in  love  with  some  one  else." 

"  Were  you  ?  You  always  denied  it.  Ah !  so  you  were 
in  love  with  some  one  else?  I  knew  it — I  knew  it  was 
that  thick-set  fellow  with  the  black  moustache.  I  won- 
der how  you  could  like  him — the  amount  of  whisky  and 
water  he  used  to  drink." 

"  Yes,  usen't  he  ?  I  have  served  him  with  as  many 
as  six  whiskies  in  an  afternoon — Irish,  he  always  drank 
Irish." 

"  How  could  you  like  a  man  who  drank  ?  " 

"  But  it  wasn't  he — I  assure  you;  I  give  you  my  word 
of  honour.     It  really  wasn't.     I'd  tell  you  if  it  was." 


287 

"Well,  who  was  it,  then?  I  couldn't  be  the  old  man 
with  the  beard  and  white  teeth?  " 

"  No." 

"  Was  it  that  great  tall  fellow,  clean  shaven  ?  " 

"  No,  it  wasn't ;  you'll  never  guess.  There's  no  use 
trying.     However,  it  is  all  over  now." 

"  Why  ?  Did  he  treat  you  badly  ?  Whose  fault 
was  it?" 

"  His.  And  the  chances  I  threw  away.  He  behaved 
like  a  beast.  I  had  to  give  up  keeping  company  with 
him." 

"Why?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  He  changed  very  much  towards 
me  lately;  he  went  messing  about  after  other  girls,  and 
we  had  words,  and  I  left." 

"  You  will  make  it  up.     Perhaps  you  are  mistaken." 

"  Mistaken — no ;  I  found  their  letters  in  his  pocket." 

"  There  are  always  rows  between  sweethearts ;  and 
then  they  kiss  and  make  it  up,  and  love  each  other  the 
more." 

"  No,  I  shall  not  see  him  again.  We  were  going  to 
be  married;  no,  it  is  all  over.  It  was  a  little  hard  at 
first,  but  I  am  all  right  now." 

"  I  am  sorry.  Do  you  think  there  is  no  chance  of 
making  it  up  ?  " 

"  I  should  have  thought  that  you  would  be  glad ;  men 
are  so  selfish  they  never  think  of  any  one  but  them- 
selves." 

"  How  do  you  mean?  Why  should  I  be  glad  that  your 
marriage  was  broken  oflF?  " 

"  You  said  just  now  that  you  liked  me  very  much,  I 
thought " 

"  So  I  do  like  you  very  much.  Once  I  was  in  love  with 
you — that  day  when  we  walked  up  the  steep  woods 
together." 

"  And  you  don't  care  for  me  any  longer  ?  " 


238 

"I  don't  say  that;  but  I  am  engaged  to  be  married." 

"Oh!" 

"  Had  you  not  snubbed  me  so  I  might  have  been  mar- 
ried to  you." 

"  Who  are  you  going  to  be  married  to — to  the  lady  we 
saw  that  day.-*  " 

"  Oh,  no,  not  to  her." 

"  I  don't  believe  you.  You  mean  to  say  you  haven't 
been  to  see  her  since." 

"  I  assure  you " 

"  You  mean  to  say  you  haven't  seen  her  ?  " 

"  I  don't  say  that.  I've  just  come  from  Ireland.  I've 
been  staying  with  my  uncle.  She  spent  a  week  with  us; 
that's  all  I  have  seen  of  her.  I  am  going  now  to  see 
the  young  lady  whom  I  am  engaged  to." 

"  And  when  will  you  be  married .''  " 

"  I  don't  know ;  there  are  a  great  many  difficxilties  in 
the  way.     Perhaps  I  shall  never  marry  her." 

"  Nonsense.  I  know  better.  You  think  it  will  take 
me  in.     I'll  never  be  taken  in  again,  not  if  I  know  it." 

"  I  don't  want  to  take  you  in." 

"  I  don't  know  so  much  about  that.  Is  she  very  pretty  ? 
I  suppose  you  are  very  much  in  love  with  her?  " 

"  Yes,  I  love  her  very  much.  Dark,  not  like  you  a  bit 
— ^just  the  opposite." 

"  And  you  met  her  since  you  saw  me }  " 

"  No." 

"  Ah,  I  thought  as  much,  and  yet  you  told  me  the  day 
we  went  up  the  river  together  that  you  never  had  and 
couldn't  care  for  any  one  else  but  me.  Men  are  all  alike 
— they  never  tell  the  truth." 

"  Wait  a  minute ;  wait  a  minute.  I  knew  her  long  be- 
fore I  knew  you;  I  have  known  her  since  I  was  a  boy, 
but  that  doesn't  mean  that  I  have  been  in  love  with  her 
since  I  was  a  boy.     I  never  thought  of  her  until  you 


289 

threw  me  over,  until  long  after;  it  was  last  summer  I 
fell  in  love  with  her." 

Lizzie's  eyes  were  full  upon  him,  and  it  seemed  to 
them  that  each  could  see  and  taste  the  essence  of  the 
other's  thought. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  ever  since  ?  You  have 
told  me  nothing  about  yourself." 

"  Well,  after  trying  vainly  to  find  you — Shaving 
searched,  as  I  thought,  all  Speirs  and  Pond's  establish- 
ments in  London,  I  tried  to  resign  myself  to  my  fate.  I 
assure  you,  I  was  dreadfully  cut  up — could  do  nothing. 
My  life  was  a  burden  to  me.  You  have  been  in  love, 
and  you  know  what  an  ache  it  is;  it  used  to  catch  me 
about  the  heart.  There  was  no  hope;  you  were  gone — 
gone  as  if  the  earth  had  swallowed  you.  I  got  sick  of 
going  to  the  *  Gaiety '  and  asking  those  girls  if  they 
knew  anything  about  you;  so  to  cure  myself  I  went  to 
France,  and  I  worked  hard  at  my  painting.  In  such 
circumstances  there  is  only  one  thing — work." 

"  You  are  right." 

"  Yes ;  nothing  does  you  any  good  but  work.  I  worked 
in  the  atelier — that's  the  French  for  studio — all  the 
morning,  and  in  the  afternoon  I  painted  from  the  nude 
in  a  public  studio.  I  had  such  a  nice  studio — such  a 
jolly  little  place.  I  was  up  every  morning  at  eight 
o'clock,  my  model  arrived  at  nine,  and  I  worked  without 
stopping  (barring  the  ten  or  twelve  minutes'  rest  at  the 
end  of  every  hour)  till  twelve.  Then  I  went  to  the  cafe 
to  have  breakfast — how  I  used  to  enjoy  those  break- 
fasts— fried  eggs  all  swimming  in  butter,  a  cutlet  after, 
nice  bread  and  butter,  then  cock  your  legs  up,  drink 
your  coffee,  and  smoke  your  cigarette  till  one." 

"  Did  you  like  the  French  cafe  better  than  the 
*  Gaiety  '  >  " 

"  It  is  impossible  to  compare  them.  I  made  a  great 
deal  of  progress.     I  began  one  picture  of  a  woman  in 


240 

a  hammock^  a  recollection  of  you.  You  remember  when 
we  passed  under  those  cedar  branches,  close  to  the 
*  Roebuck,*  we  saw  a  hammock  hung  by  the  water's  edge, 
and  I  said  I  would  like  to  see  you  in  it,  and  stand  by  and 
rock  you.  I  had  intended  to  send  it  to  the  Academy, 
but  I  never  could  finish  it,  the  French  model  was  not 
what  I  wanted — I  wanted  you;  and  I  was  obliged  to 
leave  France,  and  I  could  get  no  one  in  Southwick. 
Once  a  fellow  changes  his  model  he  is  done  for;  he  never 
can  find  his  idea  again." 

"Where's  Southwick?" 

"  A  village  outside  Brighton,  three  or  four  miles, 
not  more.  I  have  a  studio  there;  you  must  come  and 
see  it." 

"  You  must  paint  me.  But  what  would  your  lady 
love  say  if  she  found  me  in  your  studio?  She'd  have 
me  out  of  it  pretty  quick.  Tell  me  about  her;  I  want 
to  hear  how  you  fell  in  love." 

"  It  happened  in  the  most  curious,  quite  providential 
way.  I  have  told  you  that  I  knew  them  since  I  was  a 
boy.     Maggie  has  often  sat  on  my  knee." 

"  Maggie  is  her  name,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,  don't  you  like  the  name  ?  I  do.  Her  brother 
was  a  school-fellow  of  mine.  We  were  at  Eton  together, 
and  one  time  when  Mount  Rorke  was  away  travelling 
they  asked  me  to  spend  my  holidays  at  Southwick. 
That's  how  I  got  to  know  them.  One  day  Maggie  and 
Sally  were  at  my  studio;  Sally  has  a  sweetheart " 

The  sentence  was  cut  short  by  a  sudden  roar.  The 
train  had  entered  a  tunnel,  and  the  speakers  made  pause, 
seeing  each  other  vaguely  in  the  dim  light,  and  when 
they  emerged  into  the  cold  April  twilight  Frank  told  the 
story  of  Triss  and  Berkins,  Mr.  Brookes  struggling  with 
the  door,  and  the  girls  rushing  screaming  from  their 
hiding-place;  and  Frank's  imitation  of  Berkin's  pom- 
posity  amused  Lizzie,  and   she  laughed  till  she   cried. 


241 

He  continued  till  the  joke  was  worn  bare;  then,  fearing 
he  had  been  talking  too  much  of  himself,  he  said :  "  Now, 
I  have  been  very  candid  with  you,  tell  me  about  your- 
self." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  tell ;  I  think  I  have  told  you 
all."  Then  she  said,  slipping,  as  she  spoke,  into  minute 
confidences :  "  When  I  left  the  '  Gaiety  '  I  went  for  a  few 
days  to  the  Exhibition,  but  he  wanted  to  leave  London, 
so  I  applied  to  the  firm  to  remove  me  to  Liverpool  (not 
Liverpool  Street ;  the  girl — I  suppose  it  was  Miss  Clarke, 
for  I  wrote  to  her — made  a  mistake,  or  you  misunderstood 
her).  We  remained  in  Liverpool  a  year,  and  then  we 
came  back  to  London,  and  I  went  to  the  *  Criterion,'  but 
I  couldn't  stop  there  long;  he  was  so  awfully  jealous  of 
me;  he  used  to  catechise  me  every  evening — who  had  I 
spoken  to?  How  long  I  had  spoken  to  this  man.''  Once 
I  slapped  a  man's  face  in  fun  because  he  squeezed  my 
hand  when  I  handed  him  the  change  across  the  counter. 
There  was  such  a  row  about  it.  I  don't  know  how  he 
heard  of  it.  I  think  he  must  have  got  some  one  to  watch 
me.  I  often  suspected  the  porter — the  bigger  one  of  the 
two;  but  you  don't  know  the  'Criterion.'  You  used  to 
go  to  the  *  Gaiety.'  " 

"  Perhaps  he  saw  you  himself.  I  suppose  he  used 
to  come  to  the  bar  ?  " 

"  No,  not  unless — no,  not  very  often.  He  banged  me 
about." 

"  Banged  you  about,  the  brute !  Good  heavens !  How 
could  you  like  a  man  who  would  strike  a  woman?  Who 
was  he?  Was  he  a  gentleman — I  mean,  was  he  sup- 
posed to  be  a  gentleman?  Of  course  he  wasn't  really  a 
gentleman,  or  he  wouldn't  have  struck  you." 

"  He  was  in  a  passion,  he  was  very  sorry  for  it  after- 
wards. Then  I  left  the  firm  and  went  to  live  in  lodgings ; 
he  allowed  me  so  much  a  week." 

"  He  was  a  man  of  some  means  ?  " 


242 

"  No,  but  it  didn't  cost  him  much,  he  knew  the  people. 
We  were  going  to  be  married,  but  he  got  ill,  and  we 
thought  we  had  better  wait ;  and  I  went  to  the  *  Gaiety ' 
again.  I  was  a  fool,  of  course,  to  think  so  much  about 
him,  for  I  had  plenty  of  chances.  One  man  who  used 
to  lunch  there  three  times  a  week  wanted  me  to  marry 
him,  and  take  me  right  away.  I  think  he  was  in  the 
printing  business — a  man  who  was  making  good  money; 
but  I  could  not  give  Harry  up." 

"  Harry  is  his  name,  then?  " 

"Yes;  but  it  all  began  over  again.  It  was  just  the 
same  at  the  '  Gaiety '  as  it  was  at  the  *  Criterion.*  He 
would  never  leave  me  alone,  but  kept  on  accusing  me  of 
flirting  with  the  gentlemen  that  came  to  the  bar.  Now, 
you  know  as  well  as  I  do  what  the  bar  is.  You  must  be 
polite  to  the  gentlemen  you  serve.  There  are  certain 
gentlemen  who  always  come  to  me,  and  don't  care  to  be 
served  by  any  one  else,  and  if  I  didn't  speak  to  them 
they  wouldn't  come  to  the  bar.  The  manager  is  very 
sharp,  and  would  be  sure  to  mention  it." 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  ?  That  fellow  with  the  yellow 
moustache  that  walks  about  with  his  frock-coat  all  open 
■ — a  sort  of  apotheosis  of  sherry  and  bitters  ?  " 

"  That's  what  you  called  him  once  before.  You  see  I 
remember.  He  is  very  fond  of  sherry  and  bitters.  But 
I  was  saying  that  Harry  would  keep  on  interfering  with 
me,  pulling  me  over  the  coals.  We  had  such  dreadful 
rows.  He  accused  me  of  having  gone  with  gentlemen 
to  their  rooms — a  thing  I  never  did.  I  could  stand  it 
no  longer,  and  we  agreed  to  part." 

"  How  long  is  that  ago }  " 

"  About  three  weeks.  I  could  stand  it  no  longer,  I 
couldn't  remain  at  the  '  Gaiety,'  so  I  resolved  to  leave." 

"  Why  couldn't  you  remain  at  the  *  Gaiety,'  the  mana- 
ger didn't  know  anything  about  it?  " 

"  No,  he  knew  nothing  about  it,  it  wouldn't  have  mat- 


248 

tered  if  he  had,  but  after  a  break  up  like  that  you  can't 
remain  among  people  you  know — you  want  to  get  right 
away;  there's  nothing  like  a  change.  Besides  I  mightn't 
get  such  a  good  chance  again;  I  had  the  o£Fer  of  a  very 
good  place  in  Brighton,  and  I  took  it — a  new  restaurant, 
they  open  to-morrow.  I  get  thirty  pounds  a  year  and 
my  food." 

"  And  lodging?  " 

"  No,  they  are  very  short  of  accommodation,  and  I  have 
taken  a  room  in  one  of  the  streets  close  by — Preston 
Street.     Do  you  know  it }  " 

"  Perfectly,  off  the  Western  Road." 

"  The  lady  who  has  the  house  knew  my  poor  mother 
— a  very  nice  woman — will  let  me  have  a  bedroom  for 
five  shillings  a  week,  and  I  shall  be  allowed  to  use  her 
sitting-room  when  I  want  it,  which,  of  course,  won't  be 
very  often,  for  I  shall  be  at  business  all  day." 

The  train  rolled  along  the  platform;  Frank  asked  the 
porter  when  there  would  be  a  train  for  Southwick,  and 
was  told  he  would  have  half  an  hour  to  wait. 

"  I  shall  have  time  to  drive  you  to  Preston  Street." 

"  Oh,  no,  please  don't !  She  will  be  waiting  for  you— . 
you  will  miss  your  train." 


CHAP.  XIV. 

ABOUT  four  in  the  afternoon  he  left  off  painting,  and 
went  to  Brighton  for  a  couple  of  hours.  The  little  jour- 
ney broke  up  the  day,  he  bought  the  evening  papers, 
and  it  was  pleasant  to  glance  from  the  news  to  those 
who  passed,  and  to  look  upon  the  sunny  and  hazy  sea. 
He  liked  to  go  to  Mutton's,  and  regretted  Lizzie  was 
not  there,  instead  of  behind  a  bar  serving  whisky  and 
beer.  But  he  went  to  the  bar.  It  was  a  German  estab- 
lishment, decorated  with  the  mythological  art  of  Munich, 


244 

and  enlivened  with  a  discordant  band.  The  diflferent 
rooms  were  fitted  with  bars  of  various  importance. 
Lizzie  was  engaged  at  the  largest — that  nearest  the 
entrance.  At  half-past  five  this  bar  was  thronged  with 
all  classes.  Beer  and  whisky  were  drunk  hurriedly, 
with  a  look  of  trains  on  the  face.  The  quietest  time 
was  from  half-past  three  to  half-past  four,  during  these 
hours  the  dining-room  was  alone  in  the  presence  of  the 
awful  goddesses  and  a  couple  of  drowsy  waiters.  Most 
of  the  girls  were  out,  some  two  or  three  read  faded  novels 
in  the  sloppy  twilight;  a  group  of  four  or  five  men  who 
had  lingered  from  half-hour  to  half-hour  turned  their 
backs,  and  talked  among  themselves;  sometimes  a  couple 
would  condescendingly  address  Lizzie,  and  tease  her 
with  rude  remarks;  or  else  Frank  found  her  having  a 
little  private  chat  with  an  old  gentleman,  a  youth,  or, 
maybe,  the  waiter, 

Lizzie  had  her  bar  manners  and  her  town  manners, 
and  she  slipped  on  the  former  as  she  would  an  article  of 
clothing  when  she  lifted  the  slab  and  passed  behind. 
They  consisted  principally  of  cordial  smiles,  personal 
observations,  and  a  look  of  vacancy  which  she  assumed 
when  the  conversation  became  coarse.  From  behind  the 
bar  she  spoke  authoritatively,  she  was  secure,  it  was 
different — it  was  behind  the  bar;  and  she  spoke  with  a 
cheek  and  a  raciness  that  at  other  times  were  quite  for- 
eign to  her.  "  I  will  not  sleep  with  you  to-night  if  you 
don't  behave  yourself,"  so  Frank  once  heard  her  answer 
a  swaggering  young  man.  She  spoke  out  loud,  evidently 
regarding  her  words  merely  in  the  light  of  gentle  rep- 
artee. What  she  heard  and  said  in  the  bar  remained 
not  a  moment  on  her  mind,  she  appeared  to  accept  it  all 
as  part  of  the  business  of  the  place,  and  when  Frank 
was  annoyed  she  only  laughed. 

"  Men  will  talk  improper — what  does  it  matter .''  One 
doesn't  pay  attention  to  their  nonsense,  and  it  is  only 


245 

in  the  bar.  Never  mind  all  that,  tell  me  what  you  have 
been  doing.  You  didn't  come  into  Brighton  yesterday, 
I  suppose.^  " 

"  No,  I  had  to  go  to  the  Manor  House." 

"  And  how  is  she — ^the  only  one?  Are  you  as  much  in 
love  with  her  as  ever .''  " 

"  I  suppose  I  am;  I  have  begun  a  portrait  of  her." 

"  What,  another !  You  never  finish  anything.  I 
shan't  have  that  when  I  come  and  sit  for  you.  I  shall 
make  you  finish  my  portrait." 

"  Ah,  yes;  when  you  come  and  sit.  But,  joking  apart, 
when  will  you  come.''  I  should  so  like  to  show  you  my 
studio.  It  really  looks  very  nice  now.  When  will  you 
come.''  " 

"  I  have  no  time." 

"Why  not  come  next  Sunday;  it  is  your  Sunday  off." 

"  What  would  Maggie  say  if  she  found  me  there  ? 
She'd  have  my  eyes  out." 

"  If  she  did  find  it  out  she'd  know  you  came  to  sit; 
but  as  a  matter  of  fact  she'd  know  nothing  about  it. 
You  come  and  lunch  with  me  about  twelve — they're  all 
in  church  about  that  time." 

"  And  you  never  go  to  church,  you  wicked  boy.  I 
don't  know  that  I  dare  trust  myself  with  you." 

A  scruple  jarred  the  even  strain  of  his  desire  to  paint 
Lizzie's  portrait,  but  his  scruple  vanished  in  one  of  her 
sweet  sunny  smiles,  and  he  gave  her  all  information 
about  the  train  she  would  have  to  take  to  reach  South- 
wick  by  twelve  o'clock. 

He  ordered  some  delicacies  in  the  way  of  potted  meats, 
and  there  was  a  bottle  of  champagne  in  a  bucket  of  ice 
when  she  arrived. 

"  Do  you  keep  your  champagne  in  ice  ?  We  never  do 
in  the  bar.  When  the  gentlemen  want  it  they  have 
a  piece  to  put  in  their  wine." 


246 

"  I  wish  you'd  try  to  forget  your  gentlemen  when  you 
come  here." 

Lizzie  began  to  cry,  and  it  was  hard  to  console  her; 
she  said  that  Frank  had  spoilt  her  lunch  for  her. 

"  It  is  because  you  are  so  much  superior  to  the  men 
I  see  you  speaking  to.  How  can  I  help  feeling  annoyed 
that  you  should  be  serving  drinks  ?  " 

"  But  I  have  got  to  get  my  living.  You  don't  suppose 
I  serve  in  a  bar  because  I  like  it?  " 

"No,  of  course  not;  but  don't  let  us  talk  any  more 
about  it.  You're  going  to  sit  to  me,  and  I  want  to  do 
as  pretty  a  portrait  of  you  as  I  can.  All  that  beautiful 
brown  hair,  and  that  hat !  Let  me  take  it  from  your 
head ! "  Frank  had  bought  this  hat  for  her  and  had 
handed  it  to  her  over  the  counter,  thereby  bringing  cen- 
sure upon  her  from  the  manager.  "  Let's  forget  what 
I  said.  The  hat  suits  you.  There,  now  against  the 
light,  just  a  three-quarter  face." 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  he  said  she  was  a  very 
good  sitter  and  this  pleased  her,  and  she  tried  to  keep 
the  pose  till  the  clock  struck,  but  at  the  end  of  fifty 
minutes  she  said :  "  I  must  get  up,"  and  she  came  round 
to  see  what  he  was  doing. 

"  Now  you  mustn't  criticise  it,"  he  said.  "  It's  only  a 
beginning.  You've  forgiven  me  my  remarks  about  the 
bar  ?  " 

"  Don't  remind  me  of  it  again." 

But  he  could  not  get  it  out  of  his  head  that  he  had 
annoyed  her,  and  was  unable  to  apply  himself  to  his 
painting;  perhaps  for  this  reason  his  drawing  went 
wrong,  and  his  colour  became  muddy,  and  the  thought 
struck  him  that  if  Maggie  were  to  find  this  portrait 
about  the  studio  she  would  certainly  ask  him  whose 
portrait  it  was. 

"  I  can't  paint  to-day,"  he  said,  getting  up  from  his 
easel. 


247 

"And  why  can't  you  paint?"  The  question  seemed 
to  him  at  first  a  stupid  one,  and  then  she  showed  a 
perception  that  surprised  him.  "  Are  you  afraid  the 
young  lady  you  are  engaged  to  might  come  and  catch 
me  sitting  to  you?  " 

The  fear  that  this  might  happen  had  been  floating  in 
the  back  of  his  mind  for  the  last  half  hour;  he  had 
kept  Lizzie  too  long  in  the  studio,  and  it  was  not  im- 
probable that  the  girls  might  knock  at  his  door  at  any 
moment,  and  if  they  did  it  would  be  impossible  for  him 
not  to  answer.     Triss  would  bark. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  I  won't  keep  you  any  longer." 

"  No,  I  assure  you,"  he  said  aloud,  and  within  himself, 
"  I'd  give  a  sovereign  if  I  could  get  her  to  the  station 
without  being  seen." 

And  he  thought  he  had  done  so  as  he  returned  half 
an  hour  afterwards  across  the  green.  Maggie  was  wait- 
ing for  him.  "  Come  to  ask  me  to  dine  at  the  Manor 
House,"  he  thought;  but  she  told  him  that  she  knew  all 
about  his  visitor,  and  despite  all  Frank's  efforts  to  pacify 
her  she  grew  more  violent,  more  excited  until  at  last  she 
told  him  she  didn't  want  to  see  him  any  more,  that  he 
was  to  go  away,  that  she  gave  him  his  liberty. 

"  What  an  excitable  girl  she  is !  I'll  go  there  this 
evening  and  try  to  coax  her  out  of  her  anger.  I  must 
try  to  explain  to  her  that  a  painter  must  have  models. 
If  we  were  married  we  shouldn't  have  more  than  a 
thousand  a  year  to  live  on  at  the  outside — that  is  to  say, 
if  Mount  Rorke  and  Brookes  come  to  terms,  which  is 
not  very  likely,  they  might  make  up  a  thousand  a  year 
between  them,  that  would  not  be  enough  for  two,  and  I 
should  have  to  work;  and  I  couldn't  work  without  a 
model.  The  thing  is  absurd!  She'll  have  to  learn  that 
a  model  is  absolutely  necessary;  we  were  bound  to  have 
a  row  over  that  model  question,  so  it  might  as  well  come 
off  now  as  later  on,  and  we  shall  understand  each  other 


248 

better  when  this  has  blown  over.  There  is  nothing,  and 
never  has  been  anything  between  me  and  Lizzie — my 
conscience  is  clear  on  that  score.  How  pretty  she  looked 
to-day — that  pale  brown  hair,  so  soft  and  so  full  of 
colour.  To-day  was  an  unlucky  day;  I  began  by  being 
unfortunate  with  my  painting;  I  never  made  a  worse 
drawing  in  my  life,  and  the  worst  of  it  was  that  I  did 
not  see  that  my  drawing  was  wrong  until  I  had  begun 
to  paint." 

A  remembrance  of  Maggie's  gracefulness  came  daz- 
zling and  straining  his  imagination,  and  in  sharp  revulsion 
of  desire  he  assailed  Lizzie  with  angry  and  contemptuous 
memory.  She  was  always  in  low  company — was  never 
happy  out  of  it;  it  was  part  of  her.  How  this  man 
liked  six  dashes  of  bitters  in  his  sherry,  and  the  other 
would  not  drink  whisky  except  in  a  thin  glass. 

As  he  was  leaving  the  studio  he  received  a  letter  from 
Maggie,  and  when  he  thought  of  the  circumstances  in 
which  it  was  written,  he  grew  genuinely  alarmed,  for 
there  was  no  forgetting  the  seriousness  of  the  letter,  and 
she  stated  her  reasons  for  the  step  she  was  taking  without 
undue  emphasis.  In  its  severity  and  quiet  determination 
the  letter  did  not  seem  like  her,  and  he  suspected  forgery, 
sisterly  advice,  paternal  influence — a  family  conspiracy. 
There  was  but  one  thing  to  do.  He  looked  through  the 
various  furniture  for  his  hat;  and  with  his  head  full  of 
citations  from  the  lives  of  artists  illustrative  of  their 
conduct,  he  went  to  her.     But  Maggie  would  not  see  him. 

"  Miss  Brookes,"  the  servant  said,  "  is  in  her  room 
and  cannot  see  you,  sir." 

"  She  wHl  never  be  mine,  she  will  never  be  mine,"  he 
muttered  as  he  passed  into  the  town.  "  But  why  do  I 
think  she'll  never  be  mine.''"  And  looking  at  the  grey 
sea  with  only  a  trace  of  the  sunset  left  in  the  grey  sky 
he  asked  himself  if  the  thought  that  had  crossed  his 
mind  were  a  conviction,  a  foretelling  or  merely  a  passing 


249 

fancy  created  by  the  difficulty  of  the  moment.  He  asked 
himself  if  he  had  heard  himself  saying,  "  She'll  never 
be  mine  "  and  mistaken  his  own  voice  for  the  voice  of 
Fate.  Over  the  shingle  bank  the  sea  faded,  a  thin 
illusion,  dim  and  promiseful  of  peace,  and  as  the  dark- 
ness and  the  sea  filled  Frank's  soul  he,  the  lightest  and 
most  life-loving  of  men,  was  filled  for  once  with  a  sense  of 
failure  of  life,  and  as  his  sorrowing  thoughts  drifted  on 
he  remembered  that  he  had  stood  with  her  in  hearing  of 
the  rising  tide,  and  all  his  pleading  and  passion  came 
back  to  him. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

It  was  Willy. 

"  I  don't  know.  Maggie  has  broken  off  her  engage- 
ment; she  will  never  speak  to  me  again,  she  hopes  we 
may  never  meet." 

"  I  don't  understand.  When  did  she  break  off  her 
engagement?  " 

Frank  told  his  story,  and  they  walked  across  the  green 
towards  the  studio. 

"  Oh,  you  don't  care.  I  don't  believe  you  are  listening 
to  me." 

"  I  am  listening.  You  never  think  any  one  under- 
stands what  is  said  to  them  if  they  do  not  instantly 
jump  and  call  the  stars  to  witness." 

"  I  suppose  I  am  like  that — excitable — the  difference 
between  the  Celt  and  the  Saxon;  and  yet  I  don't  know, 
your  sisters  are  quite  as  excitable  as  I  am." 

"  They  take  after  their  mother ;  I  am  more  like  my 
father." 

"  It  wouldn't  be  a  bad  character  for  a  play — a  man 
who  never  would  believe  what  you  said,  unless  you 
threw  up  your  arms  and  called  on  the  stars." 

"  He  can't  be  very  bad  if  he  can  think  about  plays," 
thought  Willy. 

"  Tell  me,  Willy  you  won't  offend  me ;  tell  me  exactly 


260 

what  you  think,  did  I  do  anything  wrong?  I  swear  to 
you  there  is  nothing  between  me  and  Lizzie.  I  believe 
she  is  over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  some  fellow  who  has 
treated  her  very  badly.  She  never  would  tell  me  who 
he  was.  In  fact,  she  told  me  she  had  left  London  so 
that  she  might  get  over  it.  There  would  be  no  use  my 
humbugging  you,  and  I  swear  there  is  not,  and  never 
was,  anything  between  me  and  Lizzie  Baker.  I  never 
expected  to  see  her  again.  It  is  very  strange  how  people 
meet.  I  have  told  you  all  about  it.  When  I  go  to 
Brighton  I  must  go  somewhere  to  get  a  drink,  and  I 
really  don't  see  there  is  any  harm  in  going  to  the  '  Tiv- 
oli ' ;  it  didn't  occur  to  me  to  think  I  should  avoid  the 
place  merely  because  she  was  serving  there.  I  have 
often  been  there,  I  don't  deny  it.  Do  you  see  there  is 
any  harm  in  my  going  there.''  " 

"  I  don't  like  giving  an  opinion  unless  I  am  fully 
acquainted  with  the  facts;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  you 
might  have  gone  to  the  '  Tivoli '  to  have  a  drink  without 
asking  her  to  your  studio." 

"  Stay  a  bit,  we'll  speak  of  that  presently.  I  am  now 
telling  you  how  I  see  Lizzie  when  I  go  to  Brighton.  I 
often  go  to  Brighton  by  the  four  o'clock  train,  I  often 
go  to  the  '  Tivoli,'  and  when  she  is  not  talking  to  some 
one  else  I  talk  to  her  about  things  in  general;  but  I 
swear  I  have  never  been  out  with  her,  that  I  never  saw 
her  except  in  the  bar,  and  yet  Maggie  accuses  me  of 
keeping  a  woman  in  Brighton,  and  won't  hear  what  I 
have  to  say  in  my  defence.  This  is  what  she  says :  '  I 
have  it  on  unquestionable  authority  that  you  have  been 
keeping  this  woman  since  you  returned  from  Ireland, 
perhaps  before,  and  that  you  go  in  by  the  four  o'clock 
train  almost  daily  to  see  her.'  Now  I  ask  you  if  it  is 
fair  to  make  such  accusations — such  utterly  false  and 
baseless  accusations — and  then  to  refuse  to  hear  what  a 
fellow  has  to  say  in  his  defence.^     By  Jove!  if  I  caught 


251 

the  fellow  who  has  been  telling  lies  about  me,  I'd  let 
him  have  it.  Some  of  those  Southdown  Road  people 
have  been  writing  to  her,  that's  about  the  long  and 
short  of  it. 

"  As  for  having  asked  her  to  come  to  the  studio,  I 
assure  you  my  intentions  were  quite  innocent.  Perhaps 
you  won't  understand  what  I  mean;  you  don't  care  for 
painting,  but  very  often  an  artist  has  a  longing  to  paint 
a  certain  face,  and  the  desire  completely  masters  him. 
Well,  I  had  a  longing  of  this  kind  to  paint  Lizzie;  hers 
is  just  the  kind  of  head  that  suits  me — she  offered  to 
give  me  a  sitting,  I  did  not  see  much  harm  in  accepting, 
and  as  I  could  not  paint  her  in  the  bar  room,  I  asked  her 
to  the  studio.  But  as  for  making  out  there  was  anything 
wrong — I  assure  you  she  is  not  that  sort  of  girl.  If  we 
were  married  (I  mean  Maggie  and  I)  I  would  have  to 
have  models;  we'll  have  to  come  to  an  understanding 
on  that  point.  Now  what  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  ex- 
plain to  Maggie  that  there  is  nothing  wrong  between  me 
and  Lizzie,  you  can  tell  her  there  is  nothing — I  swear 
there  is  nothing;  and  then  you  had  better  explain  that 
an  artist  must  have  models  to  work  from." 

"  Don't  ask  me.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  ask  me.  I 
make  a  rule  never  to  interfere  in  my  sisters'  affairs.  I 
did  once,  you  remember,  and  I  thought  I  should  never 
hear  the  end  of  it." 

"  I  think  you  might  do  this  for  me." 

"  Don't  ask  me.  I  wish  you  wouldn't,  my  dear  fellow. 
I  am  an  exceedingly  nervous  chap,  and  I  have  had  noth- 
ing but  bad  luck  all  my  life." 

"  You  think  of  nothing  but  yourself.  You  certainly 
are  the  most  selfish  fellow  I  ever  met.  You  take  no 
interest  in  any  affairs  but  your  own." 

Willy  made  no  answer.  He  sat  stroking  his  mous- 
tache softly  with  slow  crumpled  hand.  After  a  long 
silence,  he  said :   "  Tell  me,  Frank,  are  you  really  in  love 


252 

with  my  sister,  or  is  it  only  imagination?  I  know  people 
often  think  they  are  in  love  when  their  fancy  is  only  a 
little  excited.  Very  little  will  pass  for  being  in  love, 
but  the  real  thing  is  very  different  from  such  fancies." 

"  I  assure  you  I  never  loved  any  one  like  Maggie. 
Yes,  I  am  sure  I  love  her." 

"  You  may  be  in  love,  I  don't  say  you  aren't ;  but  I 
am  sure  there's  no  more  common  mistake  than  to  fancy 
one's  self  in  love  because  one's  imagination  is  a  bit 
excited.  When  you  do  fall  in  love,  you  find  out  your 
mistake." 

"  You  think  no  one  was  ever  in  love  but  yourself.  Do 
you  remember  when  you  took  me  to  see  her,  when  we 
heard  her  sing  '  Love  was  false  as  he  was  fair,  and  I 
loved  him  far  too  well '  ?  " 

Frank  knew  no  more  of  the  story  than  that  Willy  had 
loved  this  actress  vainly.  On  occasions  Willy  had  al- 
luded to  her,  but  he  had  never  shown  signs  of  wishing 
to  confide. 

"  Yes,  I  remember.  How  I  loved  that  woman,  and 
what  a  wreck  it  has  made  of  my  life.  I  daresay  you 
often  think  me  dull;  I  can  quite  understand  your  think- 
ing me  narrow-minded,  selfish,  and  incapable  of  taking 
interest  in  other  people's  affairs:  losing  her  took  the  soul 
out  of  my  life.  Now  nothing  amuses  me — now  nothing 
really  interests  me.  I  often  think  if  I  were  to  die,  it 
would  be  a  happy  release." 

"  You  never  told  me  anything  about  it  before ; 
wouldn't  she  marry  you }  " 

"  I  never  knew  her.  I  fell  in  love  with  her  the  first 
time  I  saw  her,  and  my  love  swallowed  up  everything 
else.  Then  I  wasn't  wrapped  up  in  account-books,  al- 
though I  was  always  a  precise  and  methodical  sort  of 
chap;  I  was  yoimg  enough  then,  now  I  am  an  older  man 
than  my  father.  Some  fellows  have  all  the  luck;  every- 
thing succeeds  with  them,  every  one  loves  them,  men  and 


263 

women,  they  get  all  they  ask  for  and  more,  others  get 
nothing.  No  matter  what  I  tried  to  do,  something  went 
wrong  and  I  was  baulked.  I  set  my  heart  on  that  girl, 
she  was  the  one  thing  I  wanted.  I  saw  her  play  the  same 
piece  fifty  times.  I  knew  my  passion  was  hopeless,  but 
I  couldn't  resist  it.  Had  I  known  her  I  might  have  won 
her,  but  there  were  no  means;  I  never  saw  her  but  once 
off  the  stage,  and  that  was  but  a  moment.  I  often 
sent  her  presents,  sometimes  jewellery,  sometimes  fans 
or  flowers,  anything  and  everything  I  thought  she  would 
like.  I  sent  her  a  beautiful  locket;  I  paid  fifty  pounds 
for  it." 

"  Did  she  accept  your  presents  }  " 

"  I  sent  them  anonymously." 

"  Why  did  you  not  try  to  make  her  acquaintance .''  " 

"  I  knew  nobody  in  the  theatrical  world.  I  was  not 
good  at  making  acquaintances.  You  might  have  done  it. 
I  am  a  timid  man." 

"  Did  you  make  no  attempt .''  You  might  have 
written." 

"  At  last  I  did  write." 

"What  did  you  write?  " 

"  I  tried  to  tell  her  the  exact  truth.  I  told  her  that  I 
had  refrained  from  writing  to  her  for  three  years.  That 
I  quite  understood  the  folly  and  the  presumption  of  the 
effort;  but  I  felt  now,  as  drowning  men  that  clutch  at 
straws,  that  I  must  make  my  condition  known  to  her. 
I  told  her  I  loved  her  truly  and  honourably,  that  my 
position  and  fortune  would  have  entitled  me  to  aspire  to 
her  hand  if  fate  had  been  kind  enough  to  allow  me  to 
know  her.  It  was  a  very  difficult  letter  to  write,  and  I 
just  tried  to  make  myself  clear.  I  told  her  I  knew  no 
one  in  the  theatrical  world,  and  that  waiting  and  hoping 
for  some  chance  to  bring  us  together  would  only  result 
in  misery  long  drawn  out;  that  I  had  some  faint  hope 
that  this  letter  might  lead  her  to   consider  that  there 


254 

might  be  an  exception  to  the  rule  that  a  young  lady 
should  not  stop  to  speak  to  a  young  man  she  didn't  know. 
I  remember  I  said  '  when  men  are  in  deadly  earnest, 
truth  seems  to  shine  between  the  lines  they  write.  I 
know  I  am  in  earnest,  and  may  say  that  all  I  hold  dear 
and  precious  in  life  is  set  in  the  hope  that  this  letter 
may  not  appear  to  you  in  the  light  of  one  of  those  foolish 
and  wicked  letters  which  I  believe  men  often  write  to 
actresses,  and  of  which  I  suppose  you  have  been  the 
recipient.'  Then  I  said  that  I  would  be  at  the  stage 
door  on  the  following  night,  and  that  I  hoped  she  would 
allow  me  to  speak  a  few  words  to  her." 

"And  did  she.?" 

"  I  coidd  not  speak  to  her ;  I  lost  all  courage  in  that 
moment.     She  walked  close  by  me." 

"  You  mean  to  say  you  did  not  speak  to  her  after  writ- 
ing that  letter?" 

"  Call  me  a  fool,  an  idiot,  what  you  will ;  I  could  not 
do  it.  I  can  only  compare  my  feeling  to  what  Living- 
stone says  he  felt  when  he  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  a  lion.  He  stood  staring  in  the  lion's  eyes,  xmable 
to  move." 

"  She  must  have  thought  your  letter  a  practical  joke. 
I  wonder  what  she  did  think." 

"  I  wrote  explaining  the  unfortunate  circumstances  as 
well  as  I  could,  and  telling  her  I  would  come  the  follow- 
ing night." 

"Did  you  go.?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Did  you  speak  to  her  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  she  wouldn't  speak?  " 

"  She  passed  on  with  her  maid,  but  I  didn't  lose  hope 
untU  she  married.  It  was  always  a  sort  of  sad  pleasure 
to  go  to  the  theatre  to  see  her.  I  used  to  live  at  the 
Manor  House  for  two  or  three  months  at  a  time,  saving 


256 

up  my  money  so  as  to  be  able  to  make  her  some  nice 
present.  I  wished  her  to  remember  me,  although  she 
would  not  speak  to  me.  No  one  came  to  the  Manor 
House;  there  was  nothing  to  do  except  to  read  the  paper 
and  smoke  my  pipe.  I  was  sick  of  my  life,  and  I  counted 
the  days  that  would  have  to  pass  till  I  saw  her  again — 
only  thirty  more  days,  only  nineteen  days,  only  one  more 
week — so  I  used  to  count,  marking  off  each  day  in  an 
almanac,  until  one  day  I  read  the  announcement  of  her 
marriage;  then  I  knew  all  hope  was  at  an  end.  I  went 
mad  that  night  and  rushed  out  of  the  house,  and  I  should 
have  drowned  myself  had  I  not  fainted.  When  I  came 
to,  I  was  weak  and  delirious,  and  wandered  along  the 
beach,  not  knowing  where  I  was  going.  Some  fishermen 
brought  me  home.  My  sisters  were  at  school  at  the  time. 
I  believe  I  was  very  near  dying.  I  fainted  three  times 
one  afternoon.  I  used  to  lie  on  the  sofa  and  cry  for 
hours.  She  married  a  stockbroker.  I  believe  she  didn't 
care  for  him  at  all.  Then  she  died.  She  was  buried  in 
Kensal  Green.  Whenever  I  am  in  London  I  go  and  see 
her  grave." 

"  This  is  awfully  sad." 

"  Yes,  it  ruined  my  life.  I  never  had  any  luck. 
Things  always  went  wrong  with  me." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  those  letters." 

"  I  haven't  got  copies.  I  didn't  keep  a  letter-book 
in  those  days.  Let's  talk  of  something  else.  I  have 
some  news.     I  am  going  in  for  breeding  race-horses." 

"What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  What  I  say.  I  have  calculated  it  all  out,  and  I  find 
I  shall  make  from  fifteen  to  twenty  per  cent,  on  my 
money." 

"  By  breeding  race-horses !  And  where  are  you  going 
to  breed  them?  " 

"  You  know  those  stables  on  the  Portslade  Road 
where  the  veterinary  surgeon  used  to  live?     I  am  going 


256 

to  take  that  place.  The  rent  is  three  hundred  pounds 
a  year;  there  are  fifty  acres  of  pasture,  and  stabling 
for  thirty  horses.  The  dwelling-house  is  not  a  very 
aristocratic-looking  place,  but  it  will  do  for  the  present; 
when  I  begin  to  make  money  I  shall  go  in  for  altera- 
tions.    You  can't  do  everything  at  once." 

"  You  do  astonish  me.  And  where  are  you  going  to 
get  the  money  to  do  all  this?  You  will  require  at  least 
twenty  thousand   pounds   capital." 

"  More  than  that.  You  would  not  be  able  to  work  a 
place  like  that  under  twenty-five  thousand  pounds," 
Willy  replied  sententiously.  "  I  have  got  about  eight 
thousand  left  of  my  own,  and  I  came  in  for  a  legacy  of 
three  thousand  at  the  beginning  of  this  year — an  aunt 
of  mine  left  me  the  money;  and  my  father  has  agreed 
to  let  me  have  fourteen  thousand  on  condition  of  my  aban- 
doning all  further  claim  upon  him.  The  bulk  of  his 
fortune  will  now  be  divided  among  my  sisters.  Berkins 
advised  him  to  accept  my  offer." 

"  I  should  think  so  indeed ;  your  father  is  worth  ten 
thousand  a  year." 

"  No,  nothing  like  that.  His  business  has  been  going 
down  for  years  past.  Last  year  he  lost  heavily  again; 
if  it  weren't  for  his  investments  he  wouldn't  be  able  to 
go  on  with  it.  The  business  is  done  for;  I  knew  that 
long  ago.  My  father  and  I  could  never  agree  about  how 
the  accounts  should  be  kept.  That  head  clerk  of  his  is 
an  awful  duffer." 

"  Yes,  but  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  the  shop }  " 

"  The  shop  was  the  origin  of  it  all.  If  it  hadn't  been 
for  the  shop  I  daresay  I  never  should  have  thought  of 
the  race-horses.  My  father  and  I  could  never  work 
together.  I  offered  to  buy  his  surplus  fruit  and 
vegetables,  and,  without  absolutely  binding  myself  to 
deal  with  no  one  else,  I  had  assured  him  of  my  chief 
custom.     Naturally    I    expected    something   in   return — 


267 

I  expected  him  to  let  me  have  peaches  in  April  and 
strawberries  in  March.  You  cannot  do  this  without 
using  a  good  deal  of  heating  power.  I  spoke  to  the 
gardener  several  times.  Often  when  I  went  into  the 
houses  I  found  the  pipes  nearly  cold.  I  got  tired  of 
this,  and  I  paid  a  man  out  of  my  own  pocket  to  keep 
the  furnaces  properly  stoked,  and — would  you  believe 
it? — my  father  actually  raised  objections — objected  to 
my  paying  a  man  to  look  after  his  glass-houses  as  they 
should  be  looked  after.  He  said  he  would  not  order  in 
any  more  coke,  that  I'd  have  to  get  along  with  what  there 
was  in  the  garden;  he  said  he  wished  the  shop  at  the 
devil.  I  saw  it  was  hopeless.  You  cannot  help  my 
father,  and  he  won't  help  himself,  so  I  threw  the  whole 
thing  up." 

"  And  when  are  you  going  to  start  the  new  scheme  ?  " 
"  Immediately.  One  of  my  reasons  for  accepting 
fourteen  thousand  pounds  down  as  a  settlement  in  full 
was  because  I  was  beginning  to  fear  that  he  might  get 
wind  of  my  marriage.  From  one  or  two  things  I  have 
heard  lately,  I  have  reason  to  suspect  that  the  secret  is ' 
beginning  to  ooze  out,  and  I  thought  it  might  be  as  well 
to  take  time  by  the  forelock." 

"  And  you  told  him  ?  What  did  he  say  ?  " 
"  What  people  usually  say  when  they  criticise  other 
people's  lives  without  knowing  anything  of  their  tempta- 
tions and  sufferings.  But  I  want  to  tell  you  about  my 
scheme.  I  have  bought  Blue  Mantle,  the  winner  of  the 
Czarewitch,  and  only  beaten  by  a  length  for  the  Cam- 
bridgeshire, a  three-year-old,  with  eight  stone  on  his 
back;  a  most  unlucky  horse — if  he  had  been  in  the  Leger 
or  Derby  he  would  have  won  one  or  both.  He  broke 
down  when  he  was  four  years  old.  By  King  Tom  out  of 
Merry  Agnes,  by  Newminster  out  of  Molly  Bawn." 
"  I  didn't  know  you  knew  so  much  about  racing." 


258 

"  I  know  more  than  you  think.  I  don't  let  out  all  I 
know." 

"  And  how  much  did  you  pay  for  Blue  Mantle  ?  " 

"  Dirt  cheap,  I  can  imagine  myself  two  years  hence, 
when  my  first  batch  of  yearlings  is  put  up  for  sale — 
600,  650,  800,  1000,  knocked  down  for  1000  guineas, 
brown  colt  by  Blue  Mantle  out  of  Wild  Rose,  bred  by 
William  Brookes,  Esq." 

"  I  don't  think  money  will  come  in  quite  so  fast  as 
that." 

"  Perhaps  not;  but  can't  you  let  a  fellow  enjoy  him- 
self.'' I  never  knew  any  one  like  you  for  throwing  cold 
water.     I  believe  you  are  jealous." 

"  What  nonsense !  " 

"  Well,  never  mind.  I  shall  be  the  deuce  of  a  dog, 
see  if  I  shan't.  I  always  like  to  kill  two  birds  with  one 
stone  if  I  can,  and  my  business  will  bring  me  into  con- 
nection with  the  very  best  in  the  land.  Unfortunately, 
my  people  don't  care  about  getting  on;  now  I  do.  I 
like  to  know  people  who  are  better  than  myself — at  all 
events,  who  are  no  worse.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if 
I  were  dining  at  Goodwood  and  Arundel  before  long. 
When  I  go  up  to  town  I  shall  be  calling  on  Lady  This 
and  Lady  That,  and  later  on  I  might  get  in  somewhere 
in  the  Conservative  interest." 

"  How  long  you  may  know  a  man,  and  then  find  you 
are  mistaken  in  his  character,"  thought  Frank.  "  So 
vanity  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  these  efforts  to  make 
money." 

"  When  are  you  coming  to  the  Manor  House .''  " 

"  Impossible.  You  know  I  can't  go  there  so  long  as 
your  father " 

"  Come  in  one  afternoon ;  he'll  ask  you  to  stay  to 
dinner.     He  has  forgotten  all  about  it." 

"  I  cannot  come  to  the  Manor  House  until  my  engage- 
ment to  your  sister  is  sanctioned  by  him." 


269 

"  The  way  to  get  that  is  to  come  to  the  Manor  House 
and  talk  him  into  it.  For  my  part,  I  think,  even  from 
his  point  of  view,  that  it  would  be  better  that  he  should 
recognise  the  engagement ;  nothing  can  be  more  damaging 
than  these  clandestine  meetings." 

"  What  can  I  do.''     I  will  not  give  her  up." 

"  I  never  interfere.  I  have  quite  enough  worries  of 
my  own.  I  must  be  getting  home.  It  is  very  late. 
Good-bye." 

The  green  was  as  bright  as  day  in  the  moonlight  and 
Frank  watched  Willy  walking,  his  shoulders  thrown  back. 
He  sighed ;  an  undefinable,  but  haunting  melancholy  hung 
about  Willy;  he  often  impressed  Frank  as  an  old  book — 
a  book  whose  text  is  trite — which  no  one  wUl  read,  and 
which  yet  continues  to  make  its  mute  appeal;  a  some- 
thing that  has  always  missed  its  way,  that  can  hardly 
be  said  to  be  an  adequate  thing  to  offer  for  any  man's 
money,  that  will  soon  disappear  somehow  out  of  all  sight 
and  reckoning. 


CHAP.  XV. 

A  FEW  days  after  he  got  a  letter  from  Lizzie,  saying 
she  was  alone  and  ill,  and  asking  him  to  come  and  see 
her.  He  took  the  next  train  to  Brighton.  The  land- 
lady's daughter,  a  girl  of  about  twelve,  opened  the  door 
to  him. 

"How  is  Miss  Baker?     Is  she  any  better?" 

"  Please,  sir,  she  is  not  at  all  well,  she  has  cold  shivers ; 
and  mother  went  away  yesterday," 

"And  who  looks  after  Miss  Baker?" 

"  Please,  sir,  I  do." 

"  You  do !     Is  there  no  one  else  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Is  Miss  Baker  in  bed?  " 


260 

"  No,  sir.  She  said  she  would  get  up  a  little  while 
this  afternoon,  'cause  she  said  she  thought  you  was 
coming." 

"  Go  and  tell  her  I  am  here." 

"  Please,  sir,  she  said  you  was  to  go  upstairs — the  back 
room  on  the  second  floor,  please." 

"  Come  in." 

"  I  am  so  sorry  you  are  ill,  Lizzie.  What  is  the 
matter  .>" 

"  I  don't  know;  I  think  I  caught  a  severe  chill.  I 
stayed  out  very  late  on  the  beach." 

"  But  why  are  you  crying.''  Do  tell  me.  Can  I  do 
anything.^  " 

"  No,  no.  What  does  it  matter  whether  I  laugh  or  cry  ? 
Nothing  matters  now.  I  don't  care  what  becomes  of 
me." 

"  A  pretty  girl  like  you ;  nonsense !  Some  one  rich 
and  grand  will  fall  in  love  with  you,  and  give  you  every- 
thing you  want." 

"  I  don't  want  any  one  to  fall  in  love  with  me ;  I  am 
done  for — don't  care  what  becomes  of  me." 

"  Do  tell  me  about  it.  Have  you  heard  anything 
further  from  him.''     Do  tell  me;  don't  cry  like  that." 

"  No,  no,  leave  me,  leave  me !  I  am  so  miserable.  I 
don't  know  why  I  wrote  to  you.    I  hope  I  shall  die." 

"  It  is  very  lucky  you  did  write  to  me,  for  you  are 
clearly  very  ill.     What  is  the  matter?  " 

"  I  don't  know;  I  can't  get  warm.  This  room  is  very 
cold — don't  you  think  so?  " 

"Cold?     No." 

"  I  feel  cold ;  my  throat  is  very  bad — perhaps  I  shall 
be  better  in  the  morning." 

"  You  must  see  a  doctor." 

"  Oh,  no !  I  don't  want  to  see  a  doctor." 

"  You  must  see  a  doctor." 


261 

"  No,  no,  I  beg  of  you.  I  only  wrote  to  you  because 
I  was  feeling  so  miserable." 

Lizzie  stood  between  him  and  the  door,  imploring  him 
not  to  fetch  a  doctor,  but  to  go  away  at  once,  and  to  tell 
no  one  she  had  written  to  him,  or  that  he  had  been  to  see 
her.  "  Nothing  matters  now — I  am  ruined — I  don't  care 
what  becomes  of  me."  He  marvelled;  but  soon  all  con- 
siderations were  swept  away  in  anxiety  for  her  bodily 
health;  and  having  extorted  a  promise  from  her  that  she 
would  not  leave  the  room  until  he  came  back,  he  rushed 
to  the  nearest  chemist  and  hence  to  the  doctor. 

"  I  want  you  to  come  at  once,  if  possible,  and  see  a 
young  lady  who,  I  fear,  is  dangerously  ill.  She  has  not 
been  in  Brighton  long.  She  is  quite  alone.  She  sent 
for  me.  I  live  at  Southwick.  I  came  out  at  once.  I 
have  known  her  a  long  time.  I  may  say  she  is  a  great 
friend  of  mine.  I  found  her  very  ill — I  must  say  her 
condition  seems  to  me  alarming.  I  should  like  her  to 
see  a  doctor  at  once.     Can  you  come  at  once  ?  " 

"  I  am  just  finishing  dinner.  I  will  come  in  about  ten 
minutes'  time.     What  is  the  address.''" 

"  20  Preston  Street. — I  hope  he  does  not  think  there 
is  anything  wrong,"  thought  Frank.  "  He  looks  as  if  he 
did,"  and  with  a  view  of  removing  suspicion,  he  said: 
"  She  is  a  young  lady  whom  I  have  known  for  some  years. 
We  had  lost  sight  of  each  other  until  we  travelled  down 
in  the  train  together.  I  say  this  because  I  do  not  wish 
you  to  think  there  is  anything  wrong." 

"  My  good  sir,  I  should  not  allow  myself  to  have  any 
opinions  on  the  matter.  I  am  summoned  to  attend  a 
patient,  and  I  give  the  best  advice  in  my  power." 

"  Yes,  but  one  can't  help  forming  opinions — a  beauti- 
ful young  girl  living  alone  in  lodgings,  and  having  appar- 
ently for  sole  protector  a  young  man,  are  circumstances 
that  might  be  easily  misconstrued,  and  as  I  am  engaged 


262 

to  be  married^  I  think  it  right  to  tell  you  exactly  how 
I  stand  in  relation  to  this  young  woman." 

The  doctor  bowed. 

"  Do  you  not  think  I  did  well  in  making  this  ex- 
planation? " 

"  It  can  do  no  harm ;  we  medical  men  see  so  much 
that  we  take  no  notice  of  anything  but  our  patient.  But 
tell  me  something  of  this  young  lady's  suffering.  Can 
you  describe  the  symptoms .''  " 

"  She  has  a  racking  headache — she  is  shivering  all  over 
— she  sits  by  the  fire  and  cannot  get  warm.  It  looks  to 
me  as  if  it  were  fever." 

"  Does  she  complain  of  her  throat  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  she  cannot  swallow." 

"  Probably  an  attack  of  quinsy." 

"  Is  that  dangerous  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  it  is  infectious." 

"  I  don't  mind  about  that — she  is  alone.  I  will  see 
her  through  it." 

"  I  will  go  round  to  Preston  Street  immediately  I 
have  finished  dinner — in  about  ten  minutes  or  a  quarter 
of  an  hour." 

When  the  doctor  had  seen  Lizzie^  he  said  to  Frank, 
who  accompanied  him  downstairs :  "  Just  as  I  expected 
— quinsy.  She  will  take  from  eight  to  ten  days  to  get 
well.  We  have  taken  it  in  time,  that's  one  good  thing. 
The  throat  is  very  bad.  She  must  have  a  linseed  poul- 
tice, and  she  must  use  the  gargle.  Is  there  any  one  in 
the  house  who  can  attend  to  her  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  not ;  the  landlady  went  away  this  morn- 
ing, leaving  no  one  in  the  house  but  that  child.  She  will, 
I  hope,  be  home  to-morrow." 

"  In  that  case  you  had  better  have  a  nurse  in;  I  will 
give  you  the  address  of  one." 

When  Frank  returned  he  found  her  lying  on  the  bed 
weeping.     As  before,  she  refused  to  tell  him  the  cause 


268 

of  her  grief.  She  would  make  no  other  answer  than 
that  nothing  mattered  now,  that  she  didn't  care  what 
became  of  her;  and  when  he  spoke  of  going  to  fetch  a 
nurse,  she  waved  her  hands  excitedly,  declaring  she 
would  on  no  consideration  stop  in  the  house  with  a  woman 
she  didn't  know.  And,  hardly  able  to  decide  what  course 
he  should  take,  he  promised  not  to  leave  her;  she  clung 
about  him,  and  he  was  forced  to  send  the  child  (whose 
name  he  now  found  to  be  Emma)  to  the  chemist  for  the 
linseed,  and  he  wrote  a  note  asking  for  explicit  directions 
how  it  should  be  used.  Then  he  had  to  persuade  Lizzie 
to  go  to  bed.  She  resisted  him,  and  it  was  with  great 
difficulty  that  he  got  her  boots  and  stockings  off;  then 
she  collected  her  strength,  unbuttoned  her  dress,  and 
took  off  her  stays.  Then  she  said :  "  Go  out  of  the  room 
for  a  moment." 

He  found  his  way  into  the  kitchen,  and  guessing  that 
hot  water  would  be  required,  he  lit  a  fire.  But  there  was 
no  muslin,  and  he  had  to  send  Emma  for  some.  Lizzie 
smiled  faintly  when  they  entered — Frank  with  a  basin, 
Emma  with  a  kettle  and  a  parcel  of  linen.  Frank  poured 
some  rum  into  a  glass,  and  beat  an  egg  up  with  it. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  she  asked ;  and  her  voice  was  so 
faint  and  hoarse  that  he  turned,  quite  startled. 

"  Something  that  will  do  your  throat  good  and  keep 
your  strength  up.  Possibly  you  will  not  be  able  to  eat 
much  to-morrow."  He  held  the  tumbler  to  her  lips,  and 
at  length  succeeded  in  getting  her  to  drink  it.  "Emma, 
is  the  kettle  boiling?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  You  had  better  go  downstairs  and  get  some  coals, 
and  if  you  can't  find  any  nightlights  you  must  go  out  and 
buy  a  box.     Have  you  got  any  money  over?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  sixpence." 

"  Now,  Lizzie,  let  me  put  this  on  your  throat.  Throw 
your  head  well  back.    There,  it  isn't  too  hot  ?  " 


264 

And  all  that  night  he  sat  by  her  bedside.  Often  she 
could  not  get  her  breath,  and  he  had  to  lift  her  and 
prop  her  up  with  pillows;  and  four  times  he  lit  the 
candle,  and,  with  tired  eyes,  mixed  the  meal  and  placed 
it  on  her  throat.  The  firelight  played  upon  the  ceiling, 
the  kettle  sang  softly,  the  sufferer  moaned,  the  light 
brought  the  rumble  of  a  cart,  and  they  awoke  from  shal- 
low sleeps  that  blurred  but  did  not  extinguish  conscious- 
ness of  the  actual  present.  "  You  must  not  uncover 
yourself;  you  will  catch  cold.  Let  me  pin  this  shawl 
about  you."  About  eight  o'clock  Emma  knocked  at  the 
door.  Frank  asked  her  to  make  him  a  cup  of  tea.  The 
morning  dragged  along  amid  many  anxieties,  for  he 
could  see  she  was  worse  than  she  had  been  over  night. 

"The  disease  must  take  its  course,"  said  the  doctor; 
"  we  shall  be  fortunate  if  by  poulticing  we  can  stop  it ; 
if  we  can't,  it  will  come  to  a  head  in  about  eight  or  nine 
days'  time,  and  then  it  will  break.  Did  you  see  the  nurse 
last  night?     Couldn't  she  come.''  " 

"  She,"  said  Frank,  pointing  to  the  sufferer,  "  wouldn't 
allow  me  to  send  for  her;  she  said  she  would  not  stay 
in  the  house  with  a  strange  woman.  She  was  very  ex- 
cited; I  fancy  she  has  had  some  great  mental  trouble — 
a  sweetheart,  I  suppose.  I  did  not  like  to  cross  her.  I 
thought  I  could  nurse  her;  I  did  my  best.  Was  the 
poultice   all   right  ?  " 

"  Quite  right.  But  you  will  have  to  sit  up  with  her 
to-night.  You  will  be  very  tired;  you  had  better  get  in 
a  nurse." 

"  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  manage.  The  landlady 
is  expected  home  this  evening  or  to-morrow  morning. 
What  had  she  better  have  to  e&t}  " 

"  She  won't  be  able  to  eat  anything  for  some  days. 
Try  to  get  her  to  take  an  egg  beat  up  in  a  wine-glass 
of  rum." 

Hourly   she   grew   worse,   and   on  the   following  day 


265 

Frank  stood  by  her  bed  momentarily  fearing  that  she 
would  suffocate;  once  her  face  blackened  and  he  had 
to  seize  and  lift  her  out  of  bed,  and  place  her  in  a 
chair.  When  she  seemed  a  little  easier  he  called  Emma, 
and  they  made  the  bed  and  cleaned  up  the  room  together. 
Then  he  ate  a  sausage  and  drank  a  glass  of  beer  that 
had  been  brought  from  the  public-house. 

The  first  night  had  seemed  long  and  weary,  but  now 
the  hours  passed  quickly;  he  had  forgotten  all  but  the 
suffering  woman,  and  in  the  interest  of  inducing  her  to 
swallow  some  beef-tea,  in  the  pride  of  such  successes 
another  and  then  another  day  fled  lightly.  Nor  did  he 
feel  tired  as  he  had  done,  and  now  a  nap  in  an  arm- 
chair seemed  all  that  he  required.  So  the  landlady  came 
as  an  unwelcome  interruption  of  an  absorbing  occupation. 
Haggard  and  unshaven,  he  returned  to  Southwick,  where 
he  found  a  note  on  his  table  from  General  Horlock,  ask- 
ing him  to  dinner  that  evening. 

"  I  know  the  meaning  of  this :  Maggie  will  be  there 
— a  reconciliation !  Can  I  ?  "  He  turned  his  ear  quickly 
from  his  conscience;  he  was  frightened  of  the  voice  that 
would  tell  him  that  Maggie  was  nothing  to  him,  never 
had  been,  never  could  be;  that  he  had  been  born  for 
Lizzie  Baker,  as  the  soldier  is  for  the  sword  or  the  bullet 
that  kills  him;  others  had  passed  him,  had  been 
heard  sharply,  had  gleamed  dangerously  in  his  eyes. 
They  were  but  signs  and  omens  meant  for  others,  not  for 
him,  and  they  had  passed.  But  this  one  had  remained, 
though  often  lost,  as  that  remains  which  is  to  be,  and 
she  was  now  no  less  for  him  than  before,  though  now 
seemingly  lost  irrevocably  to  another;  and  in  all  the 
seeming  of  irrevocable  loss  was  drawing  nearer — ^not 
with  the  victory  and  destiny  of  old  in  her  eyes,  but  with 
no  less  victory  and  destiny  inherent  in  her.  Though  far 
from  him,  she  had  been  for  long  a  disintegrated  influence, 
but  what  had  been  distant  was  now  near,  and  all  was 


266 

yielding  like  a  ship  in  the  attraction  of  the  fabulons  load- 
stone mountain.  That  room! — ^the  wash-hand-stand,  the 
dirty  panes  of  glass,  the  iron  bed — there  his  fate  had 
been  sealed.  That  body  which  he  had  lifted  out  of  bed 
still  lay  heavy  in  his  arms.  He  still  breathed  the  odour 
of  the  hair  he  had  gathered  from  the  pillow  and  striven 
to  pin  up ;  those  eyes  of  limpid  blue,  pale  as  water  where 
isles  are  sleeping,  burned  deep  and  livid  in  his  soul; 
the  touch  and  sight  of  that  flesh,  the  sound  of  that  voice, 
those  tears,  the  solicitude  and  anxiety  of  those  hours  of 
night  and  day  conspired  against  him,  and  his  life  was 
big  with  incipient  overthrow. 

Lizzie  was  with  him  at  all  times.  He  saw  her  eyes, 
then  her  teeth,  and  the  perfume  and  touch  of  her  hair 
was  often  about  him;  and  yet  he  was  hardly  conscious 
that  a  revolution  of  feeling  was  in  progress  within  him; 
and  when  the  time  came  for  him  to  go  to  Horlock's  he 
went  there  avoiding  all  thoughts  of  Maggie,  although  he 
knew  he  would  be  called  upon  that  night  to  take  a  de- 
cisive step.  He  saw  little  of  her  before  dinner,  and  dur- 
ing dinner  the  General's  allusions  to  the  quarrels  of 
lovers  being  the  renewal  of  love  vexed  him,  and  he 
thought,  "  Confound  it !  If  I  want  to  make  it  up  I  will ; 
but  I  am  not  going  to  be  bullied  into  it."  When  the 
ladies  left  the  room  he  found  it  difficult  to  pretend  to 
the  kind-hearted  old  soldier  that  he  did  not  believe  that 
Maggie  would  forgive  him.  "  Forgive  me  for  what  ?  I 
have  done  nothing." 

"  To  get  on  with  women  you  must  always  admit  you 
are  in  the  wrong — ha,  ha,  ha !  "  laughed  the  General ; 
"  now  I  have  it  from  my  wife — women  know  everything 
— ha,  ha,  ha !  "  laughed  the  General.  "  Have  another 
glass  of  sherry  ?  " 

"  No,  thanks;  couldn't  take  any  more." 

"  I  took  I  won't  tell  you  how  many  glasses  before  I 
proposed  to  my  wife,  and  then  I  was  afraid;  enough  to 


267 

make  me — a  clever  woman  like  Mrs.  Horlock.  I  be- 
lieve you  wouldn't  find  a  woman  in  England  like  Mrs. 
Horlock.  Look  round;  all  that's  her  work.  Look  at 
that  white  Arab — exactly  like  him.  I  won  five  hundred 
pounds  with  that  horse;  but  I  wouldn't  be  satisfied,  and 
I  ran  him  again  the  following  day  and  lost  it  all  and  five 
hundred  more  with  it.  I  had  another  horse.  My  wife 
is  modelling  him  in  wax;  she  will  show  it  to  you  in  the 
next  room.       Marvellous  woman !  " 

Passing  Maggie  by  who  was  sitting  in  the  window, 
Frank  inveigled  Mrs.  Horlock  into  an  anatomical  discus- 
sion. The  General  stretched  out  his  feet,  put  on  his 
spectacles,  and  took  up  the  St.  James's.  The  conversa- 
tion dropped,  and,  full  of  apprehension  and  expecting 
reconciliation,  Frank  went  to  Maggie  and  talked  to  her 
of  the  tennis  parties  he  was  going  to,  of  the  people  he 
had  seen — of  indifferent  things.  The  time  was  tense  with 
the  fate  of  their  lives.  Once  she  turned  her  head  and 
sighed.  Time  slipped  by,  and  still  they  talked  of  their 
friends — of  things  they  knew  perfectly.  Maggie  said: 
"  I  hope  you  are  not  angry;  I  hope  we  shall  remain 
friends."  Frank  replied:  "I  hope  so,"  and  again  the 
conversation  paused.  The  General  denounced  Gladstone, 
and  praised  his  wife's  sculpture.  Ten  o'clock!  Angel 
was  lifted  out  of  his  basket.  If  Maggie  had  been  Helen 
and  Southwick  Troy,  he  would  not  be  kept  waiting;  the 
dogs  had  to  be  taken  out;  Willy  came  to  fetch  Maggie; 
hands  were  tendered,  lips  said  good-bye,  and,  with  a  sense 
of  parting,  they  parted. 

Feeling  adrift  and  strangely  alone,  he  walked  to  his 
lodging.  His  future  loomed  up  in  his  mind  as  vague  and 
as  illusive  as  the  village  that  now  glared  through  the 
mist,  white  and  phantasmal.  He  did  not  regret — we  can 
hardly  regret  the  impossible.  Then,  falling  back  on  a 
piece  of  prose,  he  said :  "  Where  was  the  good  ?  Moimt 
Rorke  would  never  have  given  his  consent.     Poor  Lizzie; 


268 

I  hope  she  is  better.  I  hope  it  has  broken.  She  won't 
get  any  relief  until  it  does." 

And  next  day,  towards  evening,  he  went  to  Brighton. 
He  found  her  shrinking  over  the  fire,  wrapped  in  a 
woollen  shawl. 

"  How  are  you  to-day  .-^  You  look  a  little  better.  I 
did  not  expect  to  find  you  out  of  bed." 

"  I  am  better,  thank  you ;  it  broke  yesterday,  and  I 
feel  relieved.  You  are  very  good.  I  think  I  should 
have  died  if  it  had  not  been  for  you.  Think  of  that  land- 
lady leaving  me  in  the  way  she  did." 

"  What  was  the  reason  ?  Why  did  she  rush  oS  in  that 
way?" 

"  She  went  to  town  to  see  her  sister,  and  she  says  she 
was  taken  ill.     She  drinks." 

"  Does  she  ?     I  hope  she  looked  after  you  yesterday }  " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"As  well  as  I  did?  " 

"  I  don't  know  about  that ;  you  are  a  very  good  nurse. 
It  was  very  good  of  you;  no  one  else  would  have  done  it." 
"  What,  not  even  he?  " 

"  You  were  with  me  for  four  days,  and  you  never  even 
went  to  bed — ^never  took  your  clothes  off." 

"  Never  even  washed  myself.  By  George !  I  was 
glad  to  get  home  and  have  a  good  wash.  I  was  a  sorry- 
looking  object — ^haggard  and  unshaven." 

"  Where  did  you  say  you  had  been  to  ?  " 

"  Nobody  asked  me." 

"Not  Maggie?" 

"  No ;  I  didn't  tell  you  our  engagement  is  broken  off." 

"  No;  you  didn't  say  nothing  about  it." 

"  On  account  of  you.  She  discovered  that  you  had 
been  to  my  studio,  and  she  said  I  was  keeping  a  woman 
in  Brighton." 

"  Keeping  a  woman  in  Brighton — she  thinks  you  are 
keeping  me!     I  will  write  to  her  and  tell  her  that  it  is 


269 

not  true.  What  right  has  she  to  say  such  things  about 
me?" 

"  She  doesn't  say  it  about  you.     She  says  a  woman." 

"  She  means  me." 

"  No,  she  doesn't ;  she  doesn't  know  anything  about 
you.  Some  one  told  her  I  went  into  Brighton  every  day 
by  the  four  o'clock  train,  and  she  put  two  and  two  or 
rather  two  and  three  together,  and  said  it  was  six." 

"  But  I  will  write  to  her.  I  will  not  be  the  cause  of 
any  one's  marriage  being  broken  off." 

"  You  need  not  trouble.  I  saw  her  last  night,  and  I 
could  have  made  it  all  right  had  I  chosen — she  was  quite 
willing." 

"  You  can't  care  for  her !  " 

"  I  suppose  not.  I  don't  think  I  ever  really  loved  her. 
I  thought  I  did.     I  was  mistaken." 

"  You  are  very  changeable." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  I  am — at  least  not  so  far  as  you 
are  concerned.  I  was  mistaken.  I  was  in  love  with 
some  one  else — with  you." 

"With  me.?" 

"  Yes,  with  you.  I  was  in  love  with  you  when  we  went 
to  Reading,  and  never  got  over  it.  I  thought  I  had,  but 
when  love  is  real  we  never  get  over  it.  I  always  loved 
you,  and  those  four  days  I  spent  nursing  you  have 
brought  it  all  out.  I  shall  never  love  any  one  else.  I 
know  you  don't  care  for  me;  you  said  once  you  couldn't 
care  for  me." 

"  I !  I  am  too  miserable  to  care  for  any  one.  I  wish 
you  had  let  me  die;  but  that  is  ungrateful.  You  must 
excuse  me,  I  am  so  miserable.  Why  speak  of  loving  me? 
I  can  love  no  one.  I  don't  care  what  becomes  of  me.  I 
am  ruined;  nothing  matters  now." 

"  I  wish  you  would  confide  in  me;  you  can  trust  me. 
Has  he  forsaken  you?     Can  you  not  make  it  up?  " 

"  No,  never  now;  I  shall  never  see  him  again." 


270 

**  Has  anything  happened  lately,  since  you  came  to 
Brighton?  " 

Lizzie  nodded. 

"  Don't  cry  like  that ;  tell  me  about  it." 

"What's  the  use?     Nothing  matters  now." 

"  Has  he  been  here  ?  " 

Lizzie  nodded,  and  Frank  folded  the  shawl  about  her, 
and  wiped  her  tears  away  with  his  pocket  handkerchief. 
"  Since  you  were  ill  ?  " 

"  No,  before  I  was  ill ;  he  was  down  here  watching  me. 
He  found  out  I  had  gone  to  your  studio,  and  he  said  the 
most  dreadful  things — that  he  would  break  your  head, 
and  that  I  had  never  been  true  to  him,  and  that  I  was 
not  fit  to  be  the  wife  of  an  honest  man." 

"  But  I  will  tell  him  that  you  came  to  my  studio  to  sit 
for  your  portrait." 

"  No,  you  mustn't  write ;  it  would  only  make  matters 
worse.    No  use;  he  says  he  will  never  see  me  again." 

"  Where  can  I  see  him  ?  Has  he  gone  back  to  London  ? 
I  will  follow  him  and  tell  him  he  is  mistaken." 

"  No,  please  don't,  and  please  don't  go  to  the  '  Gaiety  ' ; 
he  is  a  violent-tempered  man;  something  dreadful  might 
occur.     Please,  promise  me." 

"  Not  go  to  the  '  Gaiety  '  ?    He  doesn't  know  me." 

"  Yes,  he  does." 

"  Have  I  seen  him  ?  Do  tell  me ;  you  know  you  can 
trust  me.    I  am  your  friend.    Tell  me " 

"  You  have  seen  him  in  the  '  Gaiety,'  in  the  grill-room 
— the  waiter,  number  two,  the  good-looking  tall  man." 

"Oh!" 

"  He  wasn't  always  a  waiter ;  his  people  are  very  supe- 
rior.    He  has  been  unfortunate." 

"  And  it  was  he  you  loved  this  long  while  ?  " 

"  I  never  cared  for  another  man." 

"  I  must  write  and  tell  him  he  is  committing  an  act  of 


271 

injustice.    I  will  make  this  matter  right  for  you,  Lizzie." 

"  Do  you  think  you  can  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  of  it." 

He  rang  for  the  landlady,  and  asked  for  writing  mate- 
rials. She  apologised  for  the  penny  bottle  of  ink,  and 
spoke  of  getting  a  table  from  the  next  room,  but  he  said 
he  could  write  very  well  on  the  chimney-piece.  "  I  sup- 
pose I  had  better  begin,  *  Sir' }  " 

"  Don't  people  generally  begin,  *  Dear  sir  ' }  " 

"  Not  when  they  don't  know  the  people  they  are 
writing  to." 

"  But  you  do  know  him  a  little.  He  always  said  you 
were  very  haughty.     You  used  to  sit  at  his  table." 

"  I  think  I  had  better  begin  the  letter  with  '  Sir.'  " 

"  Very  well.  You  know  best.  He  was  always  very 
jealous." 


CHAP.  XVI. 

"  SIR, — I  hear  from  Miss  Baker  that  you  were  in 
Brighton  last  week,  and,  drawing  the  inference  from  the 
fact  that  she  came  to  my  studio  to  sit  for  her  portrait, 
you  accuse  her  of  very  grievous  impropriety.  I  beg  to 
assure  you  that  this  is  not  so.  At  my  urgent  request. 
Miss  Baker,  whom  I  had  better  say  I  have  known  for 
some  years,  consented  to  give  me  a  sitting.  My  inten- 
tions were  purely  artistic;  hers  were  confined  to  a  wish 
to  oblige  an  old  friend,  and  I  deeply  regret  that  they 
should  have  been  misinterpreted,  and  I  fear  much  un- 
happiness  caused  thereby." 

"  Do  you  think  that  will  do?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  beautiful  letter." 

"  Do  you  think  so — do  you  really  think  so }  Do  you 
think  I  have  said  all?  " 

"  You  might  say  something — that  I  never  even  kissed 
you;  and  that  you  respected  me  too  much." 


272 

"  I  will  if  you  like,  but  don't  you  think  that  is  im- 
plied? " 

"  Perhaps  so ;  but  you  see  he  does  not  read  many 
books.  He  hasn't  time  for  much  reading,  and  you  put 
things  in  a  difficiilt  way.  They  sound  beautiful,  but 
I " 

"  Show  me." 

"  Well,  this  *  grievous  impropriety.'  I  know  what  you 
mean,  but  I  couldn't  explain  it." 

"  Shall  I  say  '  serious  impropriety  '  ?  but  grievous  is 
the  right  word.  You  say  a  grievous  sin  for  a  mortal  sin. 
If  we  had  done  any  wrong  it  would  have  been  a  grievous 
sin;  but  I'll  change  the  word  if  you  like." 

"  No,  don't  change  it  on  my  account ;  but  I  think  he 
would  understand  a  easier  word  better." 

"  A  '  heinous  impropriety  '  }  No,  that  won't  do.  A 
*  serious  impropriety.'  That  will  do.  Is  there  anything 
else  you  would  like  me  to  alter.''  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  there  is." 

"  You  think  this  letter  will  convince  him  that  there 
was  nothing  wrong.''  " 

"  I  hope  so;  but  he  is  a  very  suspicious  man." 

"  I  will  post  it  when  I  go  out."  Then  after  a  long 
silence :  "  Do  you  know  what  time  it  is  ?  It  must  be 
getting  late." 

"  It  must  be  getting  on  for  nine." 

"  Then  I  must  say  good-bye;  but  I  forgot,  I  want  to 
ask  you — you  must  be  hard  up,  and  want  some  money 
— do  you.**  If  you  do,  I  assure  you  I  shall  be  only  too 
glad." 

"  Well,  I  am  rather  hard  up,  for  you  know  that  this 
illness  has  prevented  my  doing  anything;  and  I  am 
afraid  I  have  lost  my  place  at  the  *  Tivoli.'  " 

"  What  do  you  intend  to  do.>  " 

"  I  should  like  to  go  back  to  London.     I  shall  see  him 


273 

there,  and  if  the  letter  makes  it  right  we  may  be  mar- 
ried.    I  will  write  to  you." 

"  You  will  ? — Do.  Here  is  five  pounds.  I  have  no 
more  about  me,  but  if  anything  should  occur,  you  know 
where  to  write  to." 

"  You  are  very  good.  I  don't  deserve  it.  I  don't  know 
why  you  take  so  much  trouble  about  me.  If  he  doesn't 
marry  me  I'll  try  to  get  another  place;  I  shall  go  back 
to  the  firm." 

"  When  do  you  intend  to  leave  ?  " 

"  As  soon  as  I  am  well  enough,  in  a  day  or  two ;  but 
you  will  not  come  here  again." 

"  I  had  thought  that  I  might." 

"  I  know ;  but  if  he  were  to  hear  that  you  had  been 
here,  it  would  be  worse  than  ever.  You  don't  mind,  do 
you  ?    You  aren't  angry,  are  you  ?  " 

"  No;  good-bye,  Lizzie.  Write  to  me  when  you  are 
married."  Frank  walked  into  the  street.  There  was 
neither  rage  nor  will  in  him.  He  was  a  sorrowing  crea- 
ture in  a  bitter  world.  The  sea  was  cruelly  blue  in  the 
coming  night;  the  sky  was  also  blue,  only  deeper,  a  red 
streak  like  a  red  bar  of  iron  stretched  across  the  em- 
baying land,  relieving  into  picturesque  detail  the  out- 
lines of  coast-towns  and  villages.  His  eyes  rested  on  and 
drew  grief  from  this  dim  distance  so  illusive;  and  for 
jarring  contrast,  the  pier  hung  with  gaudy  and  gross 
decoration  in  the  blue  night,  and  a  brass  band  replied  to 
the  waves. 

Then  the  clouds  lifted,  and  when  he  returned  to  South- 
wick  the  moon  was  shining  and  some  boys  pursued  the 
resounding  ball  through  the  shadows.  He  undressed 
with  an  effort,  and  he  lay  down  hoping  never  to  rise 
again.  Next  morning  he  went  to  his  studio  full  of  re- 
solve. His  picture  must  be  finished  for  one  of  the  win- 
ter exhibitions.  He  did  not  take  up  his  palette,  nor  did 
he  sit  at  his  piano  for  more  than  a  few  minutes;  and 


274 

when  he  met  Willy  he  raged  against  Lizzie,  jeered  at  her 
vulgarity,  heaped  ridicule  upon  her  lover,  the  waiter;  he 
spoke  of  writing  a  novel  on  the  subject;  he  set  out  her 
character  at  length;  and  was  alarmed  when  told  that 
Maggie  was  ill.  He  must  win  her.  She  must  be  his 
wife.  So  he  told  Willy,  so  he  assured  himself  that  she 
would.  He  knew  that  Lizzie  was  nothing  to  him.  She 
had  left  Brighton,  thank  God!  He  went  to  sleep,  cer- 
tain he  had  torn  this  page  out  of  his  life,  and  he  awoke 
to  find  it  still  there;  and  day  after  day  he  continued  to 
brood  upon,  and  still  unable  to  understand  its  meaning, 
he  longed  to  turn  it  over  and  read,  for  there  were  other 
pages ;  but  they  were  sealed,  and  he  might  only  read  this 
one  page. 

"  I'm  afraid  that  our  old  friend  Brookes  is  having  a 
hard  time  of  it,"  said  the  General,  taking  the  spectacles 
from  his  nose,  and  laying  down  the  St.  James's,  "  they 
are  all  at  him  tooth  and  nail,"  and  the  General  laughed 
gleefully.  "  You  are  the  young  man  who  has  upset 
them.     The  young  lady  won't  dress  herself." 

"  My  dear  Reggie,  you  shouldn't  talk  like  that.  I  do 
hate  to  hear  scandal;  you'll  repent  it,"  said  Mrs.  Hor- 
lock,  and  she  adroitly  smoothed  the  wax  on  the  horse's 
quarters. 

"  I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Horlock,  I  never  repeat  what  I 
hear;  the  guiding  principle  of  my  life  is  not  to  repeat 
conversations.  Particularly  in  a  village  like  Southwick, 
it  is  most  essential  that  none  of  us  should  repeat  con- 
versations; I  have  always  said  that." 

"  Do  tell  me  about  Maggie ;  I  hear  she  is  very  ill.  What 
is  the  matter  with  her?  What  did  you  say — the  young 
lady  won't  dress  herself?  " 

"  My  dear  Reggie,  I  will  not  stay  here  and  listen  to 
scandal.    Not  a  word  of  it  is  true,  Mr.  Escott." 

"  What  is  not  true,  Mrs.  Horlock  ?  " 


275 

"  What  he  told  you  about  her  walking  about  the  house 
with  her  hair  down." 

"  I  don't  think  the  General  said  anything  about  walk- 
ing about  the  house  with  her  hair  down;  he  said  some 
one  wouldn't  dress  herself.  I  suppose  he  meant  Maggie. 
I  am  sure  I  am  sorry — I  am  most  sorry — to  hear  she 
is  ill,  but  it  is  unjust  to  assume  that  I  had  anything  to 
do  with  her  illness.  We  can  speak  freely  among  our- 
selves, you  know.  You  know  the  circumstances;  no  one 
is  more  capable  of  understanding  the  case  than  you,  for 
you  are  an  artist.  Maggie  heard  that  I  had  had  a  model, 
that's  what  it  amounts  to,  and  she  broke  off  the  engage- 
ment; nothing  could  be  more  unjust,  nothing  could  be 
more  unwarranted." 

"  It  could  be  brought  on  again,  I  know  that,"  said 
Mrs.  Horlock,  and  she  turned  the  shoulders  of  her  horse 
to  the  light. 

"  We  will  not  go  into  that  question,  Mrs.  Horlock.  I 
confine  myself  to  what  has  happened,  and  I  say  I  was 
treated  unjustly,  most  shamefully;  and  when  I  have  been 
cast  aside  like  an  old  hat,  I  hear  indirectly  that  it  can 
be  made  up  again.  I  have  borne  quite  enough,  and  will 
bear  no  more.  Old  Brookes  came  down  to  my  studio 
with  that  cad  Berkins,  and  forced  his  way  in,  and  then 
forbade  me  the  house  because  my  dog  bit  Berkins's 
thigh.  I  couldn't  help  it.  What  did  he  attack  me  for? 
He  didn't  suppose  a  bull-dog  would  be  still  while  his 
master  was  being  knocked  on  the  head." 

"  What  should  a  common  City  man  know  about  dogs  ? 
He  wouldn't  sign  the  petition  when  I  asked  him,  to  Sir 
Charles  Warren,  to  cancel  the  regulations  about  muz- 
zling." 

"  And  then  they  set  a  report  going  that  I  had  set  the 
dog  on,  and  if  I  hadn't  set  it  on,  that  I  hadn't  called 
him  off.  As  if  I  could!  You  know  what  a  bull-dog  is, 
Mrs.  Horlock?    Is  a  highly-bred  dog  likely  to  let  go  when 


276 

he  has  fixed  his  teeth  in  the  fleshy  part  of  a  thigh?  The 
Brookeses  are  old  friends  of  mine,  and  I  wouldn't  say  a 
word  against  them  for  the  world;  but  of  course  it  is  as 
obvious  to  you  as  it  is  to  me  that  they  are  not  quite  the 
thing.  I  mean — you  know — I  would  not  think  of  com- 
paring them  with  the  Southdown  Road;  but  there  is  a 
little  something.  City  people  are  not  the  Peerage; 
there's  no  use  saying  they  are.  Mount  Rorke  was  upset; 
but  I  would  not  give  in,  and  I  think  I  should  have  won 
his  consent  in  the  long  run.  After  all  I  have  borne  for 
her  sake  I  think  I  might  expect  better  treatment  than  to 
be  thrown  over,  as  I  have  said,  like  an  old  hat;  and  I 
don't  mind  telling  you  that  I  do  not  intend  to  be  made  a 
fool  of  in  this  matter;  I  shall  turn  a  very  deaf  ear  to 
stories  of  a  broken  heart  and  failing  health.  I  shall  not 
cease  to  think  of  Maggie.     I  loved  her  once  very  deeply, 

and  I  should  have  loved  her  always  if But  tell  me, 

General.     You  know  I  will  not  repeat  anything." 

"  I  advise  you  to  say  no  more,  Reggie.  I  will  not  be 
mixed  up  in  any  scandal.  I  shall  leave  the  room.  Sally 
is  dining  here  to-night;  she  is  only  too  anxious  to  talk 
of  her  sister.  If  Mr.  Escott  will  stay  and  take  pot-luck 
with  us,  he  will  no  doubt  hear  everything  there  is 
to  hear  in  the  course  of  the  evening." 

"  What  have  we  got  for  dinner,  Ethel .''  I  know  we 
have  got  a  leg  of  mutton,  and  there  is  some  curry." 

"  Your  dinners  are  always  excellent,  Mrs.  Horlock.  I 
shall  be  delighted  to  stay.  Here  is  Sally.  Oh,  how  do 
you  do,  Sally?     We  were  talking  of  you." 

"  I'm  afraid  every  one  is  talking  of  me,  now,"  she 
whispered,  and  the  big  girl  passed  over  to  Mrs.  Horlock 
and  kissed  her.  "  How  is  it  that  no  one  has  seen  any- 
thing of  you  lately?  "  she  said,  taking  the  seat  next  him. 
"  What  have  you  been  doing  ?  " 

"  Nothing  in  particular.  But  I  want  to  ask  you  about 
Maggie.     I  hear  she  is  very  ill." 


277 

Perceiving  that  his  tone  did  not  bespeak  a  loving  mood, 
Sally's  face  brightened,  and  she  became  at  once  voluble 
and  confidential. 

"  Oh,  we  have  been  having  no  end  of  a  time  at  home. 
Father  has  been  speaking  of  selling  the  place  and  leaving 
Southwick." 

"  Speaking  of  selling  the  place  and  leaving  Southwick ! 
And  where  does  he  think  of  going  to  live,  and  what  is 
the  reason  of  this.''  " 

"  Oh,  the  reason !  I  suppose  he  would  say  I  was  the 
reason;  and  where  he  is  going  to  live,  that  is  not  settled 
yet — probably  one  of  the  big  London  hotels.  He  says 
everybody  is  laughing  at  him,  and  that  when  he  meets 
the  young  men  at  the  station  he  can  see  them  laughing  at 
him  over  their  newspapers,  for,  according  to  father,  they 
have  all  flirted  with  us.  Maggie  has  been  saying  all 
kinds  of  things  against  me,  and  I  am  afraid  that  the 
Southdown  Road  people  have  been  writing  him  anony- 
mous letters  again.  Some  one — I  don't  know  who  it  is 
— I  wish  I  did — has  been  telling  him  the  most  shocking 
things  about  Jimmy  Meason  and  me;  things  in  which  I 
assure  you  there  is  not  a  word  of  truth.  You  know  your- 
self that  we  have  hardly  spoken  for  nearly  two  years; 
last  year,  it  is  true,  we  made  it  up  a  bit  in  your  studio, 
but  it  didn't  last  long.  I  don't  think  I  saw  him  twice 
afterwards,  and  never  alone — and  now  to  have  everything 
that  happened  two  years  ago  raked  up  and  thrown  in  my 
face!  I  don't  say  I  haven't — I  don't  know  what  you'd 
call  it,  I  suppose  you'd  call  it  spooning.  I  admit  I  in- 
finitely preferred  walking  about  the  garden  with  a  young 
man  to  sitting  in  the  drawing-room  and  doing  woolwork. 
I  was  a  silly  little  fool  then,  but  I  do  think  it  hard  that 
all  this  should  be  raked  up  now.  I  don't  know  what  will 
happen.  Maggie  pretends  to  be  frightened  at  me;  'tis 
onlv  her  nonsense  to  set  father  against  me.     She  won't 


278 

dress  herself,  and  she  walks  about  with  her  hair  down 
her  back,  wringing  lier  hands." 

"  Bat  what  does  she  say  ?     This  is  very  bewildering. 
I  don't  understand — I  am  quite  lost," 

"  The  fact  is  that  Maggie  doesn't  know  what  she  is 
saying,  so  I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  blame  her.  She  is 
a  little  off  her  head,  that's  the  truth  of  it ;  but  you  mustn't 
say  I  said  so,  it  will  get  me  into  worse  trouble  than  I 
am  already  in.  She  was  like  that  once  before,  and  had 
to  be  put  in  the  charge  of  a  lady  who  was  in  the  habit 
of  dealing  with  excitable  people.  I  don't  mean  lunatics, 
don't  run  away  with  that  notion.  I  don't  know  what 
would  happen  if  it  got  about  that  I  was  putting  that 
about.  Maggie  is  very  excitable,  and  she  has  been  ex- 
citing herself  a  great  deal  lately — you  were  the  principal 
cause.  She  did  all  she  could  to  get  you  to  make  it  up 
when  you  met  her  here  at  dinner — the  dinner  was  given 
for  that — but  you  said  nothing  about  it,  and  she  came 
home  in  an  awful  state,  accusing  every  one  of  combining 
to  ruin  her.  She  said  I  was  jealous  of  her,  that  I  was 
wild  with  fear  that  she  would  one  day  be  Lady  Mount 
Rorke.  She  said  father  had  done  everything  to  break 
off  her  marriage,  because  he  did  not  like  parting  with  his 
money.  She  had  set  her  heart  on  being  married,  and  it 
was  a  terrible  disappointment.  She  has  been  disap- 
pointed two  or  three  times.  Father  doesn't  know  what 
to  do.  Her  thoughts  seem  to  run  on  that  one  subject. 
She  walks  about  the  garden  saying  the  most  extraordinary 
things." 

"  But  tell  me  about  the  illness." 

"  I  don't  know  if  I  ought  to  tell  you." 

"Oh,  do!" 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  say  it.     She  used  to  say  she 
longed  to  become  a  mother." 

"  Longed  to  become  a  mother }     Well,  that  is  the  last 
thing " 


279 

"  You  know  what  I  mean." 

"  But  tell  me  about  the  illness." 

"  I  should  call  it  more  than  being  a  little  excited,  but 
of  course  she  isn't  mad.  She  has,  however,  the  most 
curious  notions.  She  is  always  a  little  too  imaginative 
at  the  best  of  times;  at  least,  I  find  her  so,  but  now  her 
delusions  are  really  too  absurd,  and,  as  I  have  said,  the 
worst  of  it  is  that  her  thoughts  run  on  that  one  thing; 
it  really  is  most  unfortunate.     Poor  father." 

"  But  what  are  her  delusions  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  scarely  know  how  to  tell  you." 

"  Try ;  anything  can  be  told.  It  depends  on  how  it  is 
told." 

"  She  thinks  that  the  coachman  has  spread  it  all  over 
Southwick — how  shall  I  say  it?  I  don't  know  that  I 
ought  to  tell  you.  Well,  that  she  has  gone  wrong  with 
you  and  Berkins.  I  thought  I  should  die  of  laughing — 
the  idea  of  Berkins  was  too  funny  for  words." 

"But  your  father  doesn't  believe  it.^  " 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  He  doesn't  suspect  me,  I  hopcf"  " 

"  No;  I  am  sure  he  doesn't.  He  knows  Maggie  doesn't 
know  what  she  is  saying.  But  he  was  dreadfully  put  out 
about  Berkins;  he  is  frightened  out  of  his  wits  lest  he 
should  hear  of  it.  But  for  goodness'  sake  don't  mention 
that  I  said  anything  to  you  about  it;  I  am  in  trouble 
enough  as  it  is.  Father  says  he  can  stand  it  no  longer.  I 
am  very  much  afraid  that  he  will  leave  Southwick.  It 
depends  on  what  Aunt  Mary  says.  He  has  sent  for  her; 
she  will  be  here  to-morrow." 

These  family  councils  were  held  in  the  billiard-room, 
and  when  Aunt  Mary  and  Aunt  Hester  had  had  their 
tea  they  came  along  the  passage.  Aunt  Mary  of  course  in 
front.  Aunt  Hester  timid  and  freckled  and  with  her  usual 
air  of  tracts.  Uncle  James  stood  with  his  back  to  the 
fire  waiting  for  them.     Willy  caught  at  his  hair,  but  an 


280 

expression  of  resignation  overspread  his  face,  lie  packed 
his  diary  and  accounts  in  brown  paper  and  lit  a  pipe. 

"  Now,  James,  let  us  hear  about  these  new  troubles. 
Something  must  be  done,  that  is  clear." 

"  Yes,  something  must  be  done,  Mary,  and  I  can  think 
of  nothing  for  it  but  to  leave  this  place.  It  is  no  longer 
a  place  for  me  to  live  in.  The  Southdown  Road  has 
proved  too  strong  for  me,  it  has  conquered  me." 

"  Don't  speak  like  that,  James.  We  must  try  to  bear 
our  burdens,  if  not  for  our  own  sakes,  for  the  sake  of 
Him  who  died  for  us.  He  bore  a  very  heavy  cross 
for  us." 

"  There's  no  use  in  talking  to  me  like  that,  Hester, 
you  only  provoke  me.  You  forget  what  a  cross  two 
daughters  are,  and  the  Southdown  Road  has  become  in- 
tolerable. It  is  more  than  any  man  can  bear;  I  will  bear 
it  no  longer.  I  have  borne  it  long  enough,  and  am  deter- 
mined to  get  rid  of  it.  I  am  afraid  there's  nothing  for 
it  but  to  sell  the  place  and  go  and  live  in  London." 

Aunt  Hester  cast  her  eyes  into  her  satchel,  afraid  even 
to  think  that  her  brother  had  intentionally  misinterpreted 
her  words;  but  Aunt  Mary  laughed  at  the  idea  of  the 
slonk-hill,  as  a  latter-day  Golgotha,  with  poor  Uncle 
James  staggering  beneath  the  weight  of  the  Southdown 
Road,  young  men  and  all,  upon  him.  It  was  very  irrev- 
erent. He  burst  into  tears,  Hester  moved  to  leave  the 
room,  but  was  restrained  by  her  sister. 

"  My  position  is  a  most  unfortunate  one ;  since  the 
death  of  poor  Julia  I  have  had  no  one  to  turn  to,  there 
has  been  no  restraining  influence  in  this  house.  Here 
am  I  working  all  day  long  in  the  City  for  those  girls, 
and  when  I  come  home  in  the  evening  I  find  my  house 
full  of  people  I  don't  know.  I  assure  you,  Mary,  I 
don't  know  any  of  the  people  who  come  to  my  house.  I 
am  consulted  in  nothing.     It  is  not  fair — I  say  it  is  not 


281 

fair;  and  at  my  death  those  girls  will  have  thirty  thou- 
sand pounds  a-piece." 

"  I  knew  you  had  the  money,  James,  I  knew  you  had," 
exclaimed  Aunt  Mary,  and  even  Aunt  Hester  could  not 
help  casting  a  look  of  admiration  on  her  weeping 
brother. 

"  I  say  it  is  not  fair ;  a  man  of  my  money  should  have 
a  comfortable  home  to  return  to.  Even  the  Southdown 
Road  people  have  that;  but  no  consideration  is  shown  to 
me.  My  dinner  is  put  back  so  that  Sally  may  continue 
her  flirtation  with  Meason  in  the  slonk.  Did  any  one 
ever  hear  of  such  a  thing.''  A  man's  dinner  put  back  so 
that — that — that " 

"  Yes,  we  know  all  about  the  dinner  being  put  back ; 
that  was  three  years  ago." 

"  Why,"  Mr.  Brookes  asked  himself,  "  had  he  invited 
his  sisters  to  his  help .''  "  He  was  only  adding  bitterness 
to  his  bitter  cup.  "  You  have  no  sympathy,  Mary,"  he 
went  on ;  "  you  cannot  understand  the  difficulties  of  my 
position — these  two  girls  are  for  ever  quarrelling  and 
fighting;  sometimes  they  are  not  even  on  speaking  terms, 
but  I  think  I  prefer  their  sullen  looks  to  their  violence. 
Sally  threatened  to  knock  her  sister  down  if  she  inter- 
fered with  her  young  men." 

"  What,  again  }  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  if  she  has  threatened  to  beat  her 
lately.  I  don't  remember  when  was  the  last  time.  Their 
various  rows  are  all  jumbled  up  in  my  head.  All  I  know 
is  that  Maggie  says  she  cannot  live  in  the  house  with 
Sally.  Maggie  is  very  ill,  she  is  in  a  very  excited  state, 
as  she  was  once  before,  when  I  would  not  consent  to  her 

marriage  with I   have   forgotten  his   name,  but   it 

doesn't  matter.  Now  she  won't  dress  herself,  and  she 
walks  about  the  house  with  her  hair  hanging  down.  I 
know  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  send  her  away  under 
the  charge  of  some  lady  who  has  had  experience  in  such 


282 

matters.  She  can't  remain  here.  She  has  the  strangest 
delusions.  Among  other  things,  she  fancies  the  coachman 
has  spread  it  all  over  South  wick  that  she  has  gone 
wrong  with  Berkins  and  that  fellow  Escott.  Just  fancy 
if  Berkins — a  ten  thousand  a  year  man — should  hear  of 
it!  I  don't  know  what  he  would  say.  He  would  peg 
into  me;  he  is  at  times  very  hard  indeed  upon  me.  I 
don't  say  he  is  not  a  first-rate  man  of  business,  I  know 
he  has  made  several  excellent  investments;  but  for  all 
that  I  do  not  and  cannot  think  him  competent  to  advise 
me  on  all  my  affairs,  and  that's  what  he  is  always  doing. 
He  talks  of  putting  down  that  Southdown  Road.  I 
should  like  to  see  how  he  would  set  about  doing  it." 

"  James,  Maggie  must  go  away ;  she  is  very  highly 
organised,  very  sensitive,  and  if  she  were  to  remain  here, 
Sally  might  have  a  real  effect  on  her  mind.  It  is  clear 
the  sisters  don't  get  on  together;  have  you  had  medical 
advice?  I  told  you  before  that  you  should  have  medical 
advice  about  those  girls;  I  told  you  to  spare  no  expense, 
but  to  go  to  a  first-rate  London  physician  and  take  his 
opinion.  I  said  before,  and  I  say  it  again,  that  no  girls 
in  good  health  could  carry  on  as  dear  Sally,  and  I  will 
include  dear  Maggie;  for  although  she  does  not  defy  you 
to  the  same  extent,  there  is  no  doubt  that  she  is  too  fast, 
too  fond  of  young  men;  her  thoughts  run  too  much  in 
that  way,  and  now  she  is  ill,  of  course  she  has  delusions. 
You  ought  to  have  medical  advice." 

"  Mary,  dear,  the  body  is  not  everything;  to  cure  the 
flesh  you  must  first  cure  the  soul.  I  believe  our  dear 
nieces  rarely,  if  ever,  attend  church,  rarely,  if  ever,  re- 
member that  this  life  is  not  eternal  and  that  there  is  a 
hereafter." 

The  conversation  came  to  a  pause.  Presently  Aunt 
Mary  asked  Willy,  who  sat  resigned  to  his  fate,  calm 
and  solemn  as  a  Buddha,  his  hands  clasped  over  his 
rotund  stomach,  if  he  thought  that  Maggie's  state  was 


283 

one  to  cause  immediate  anxiety,  to  which  he  replied: 
"  My  sisters  think  of  nothing  but  pleasure.  The  trouble 
girls  are  in  a  house  is  more  than  any  one  would  believe. 
Here  I  am,  I  can  do  nothing;  every  night  it  is  the  same 
thing,  over  and  over  again."  And  the  lean  man  lapsed 
into  contemplation. 

"  But  to  come  to  the  point,  James,  I  want  to  hear  about 
Sally.  You  said  in  your  letter  that  a  great  deal  had 
come  to  light,  and  that  you  now  find  that  her  conduct  has 
been  worse  than  you  had  ever  imagined  it,  even  in  your 
moments  of  deepest  dejection.  Now,  I  want  to  hear 
about  all  this.  What  has  she  done  ?  Let's  have  it  in  plain 
English.    What  has  she  done?  " 

"  To  put  it  plainly,  Mary,"  said  Mr.  Brookes,  wiping 
his  tears  away,  and  turning  his  back  upon  his  Goodall, 
"  I  don't  know  what  she  hasn't  done — everything.  She 
is  at  the  present  moment  the  talk  of  Southwick.  The 
doctor  here  has  seen  her  in  the  field  at  the  back  here 
with  Meason  at  nine  o'clock  at  night." 

"  Why  did  you  allow  her  to  leave  the  house  at  that 
hour?     No  young  girl " 

"She  always  takes  her  dogs  out  in  the  evening;  I 
cannot  prevent  her  doing  that.  It  appears,  too,  that 
she  has  had  Meason  up  in  her  bedroom." 

"  O  James,  you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  my  dear  niece 
had  a  man  in  her  bedroom !  " 

"  Hester,  dear,  you  have  lived  in  a  rectory  and  know 
nothing  of  the  world.  She  says  it  isn't  a  bedroom.  She 
pushes  the  bed  away  in  the  daytime,  and  covers  it  up 
to  make  it  look  like  a  couch.  Besides,  she  keeps  birds  in 
her  room,  and  Flossy  had  her  puppies  there.  I  am  not 
excusing  her  conduct,  pray  do  not  think  that,  I  am  only 
telling  you  what  she  says." 

"  This  is  very  serious.  Are  you  quite  sure  ?  Perhaps 
she  only  meant  to  show  the  young  man  her  birds  or  pup- 
pies.   Her  spirit  must  be  broken,  I  can  clearly  see  that." 


284 

"  I  allow  them,  as  you  know,  one  hundred  pounds  a 
year  apiece.  Maggie  keeps  none,  but  Sally  always  keeps 
accurate  accounts  of  what  she  spends.  I  asked  to  see 
those  accounts,  for  I  had  heard  she  had  been  giving  her 
money  to  Meason,  and  she  refused  to  let  me  see  them. 
There  is  a  sum  of  twenty  pounds  for  which  she  can  give 
no  explanation.  Then  it  is  well  known  she  gave  a  set 
of  diamond  studs  to  that  fellow,  and  that  he  pledged 
them  for  five  pounds  in  Brighton.  He  boasted  he  had 
done  so,  and  said  he  intended  to  get  plenty  of  money 
out  of  me  before  he  had  done  with  me.  After  that  I 
ask  you,  how  can  I  live  in  this  place.'*  When  I  go  to  the 
station  in  the  morning  I  see  these  young  fellows  laugh- 
ing at  me  over  the  tops  of  their  newspapers.  When  I 
come  home  of  an  evening  after  a  hard  day's  work,  I  find 
that  my  dinner " 

"  Her  spirit  must  be  broken,"  said  Aunt  Mary,  draw- 
ing her  shawl  about  her,  and  crossing  her  hands.  "  Her 
spirit  must  be  broken;  she  cannot  be  allowed  to  remain 
here  to  drive  dear  Maggie  into  a  limatic  asylum.  I  am 
with  you  in  that,  James,  but  I  cannot  think  you  did  well 
to  let  Frank  Escott  slip  through  your  fingers.  Had  you 
not  talked  so  much  about  money  your  daughter  might 
have  been  Lady  Mount  Rorke." 

"  Talked  too  much  about  my  money }  Who  would 
talk  about  it,  I  should  like  to  know,  if  I  didn't.''  I  made 
it  all  myself.  What  do  I  care  for  that  lot — a  stuck-up 
lot,  pooh,  pooh !  twist  them  all  round  my  finger.  I  am 
not  going  to  give  my  daughter  to  a  man  who  cannot  make 
a  settlement  upon  her." 

Seeing  he  was  not  to  be  moved  in  anything  that  con- 
cerned his  pocket.  Aunt  Mary  returned  to  the  considera- 
tion of  what  was  to  be  done  with  Sally.  "  From  what 
you  tell  me  it  is  clear  that  Sally  must  not  remain  in 
Southwick  a  day  longer  than  can  be  helped.  I  will  take 
her  with  me  to  Woburn;  and  I  think  she  had  better  go 


285 

abroad  as  soon  as  we  can  hear  of  some  one  in  whose 
charge  we  can  place  her.  But  it  must  not  be  a  sea  voy- 
age— there  is  nothing  more  dangerous  than  to  be  on 
board  a  ship  for  a  young  girl  who  is  at  all  inclined  to 
be  fast.  All  are  thrown  so  much  together.  The  cabins 
open  out  one  into  the  other,  and  there  is  always  a  look- 
ing for  something — a  handkerchief,  a  bunch  of  keys,  a 
lot  of  stooping  and  playing,  twiddling  of  moustaches," 
said  Aunt  Mary,  with  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"  Mary,  dear,  we  should  not  speak  lightly  of  wicked- 
ness." 

"  It  was  so  that  all  the  mischief  was  done  when  Emily 
Evans  was  sent  out  to  the  Cape — it  was  all  done  on 
board  a  ship.  You  remember  the  Evanses,  James? — you 
ought  to,  you  used  to  flirt  pretty  desperately  with  Lucy, 
the  younger  sister."  And  then  Aunt  Mary  rattled  off 
into  interminable  tales  concerning  the  attachment  con- 
tracted on  board  a  ship  in  particular,  its  unfortunate 
consequences,  how  it  brought  about  a  divorce  later  on 
by  sowing  the  seeds  of  passion  (Aunt  Mary  always  pro- 
nounced the  word  "  passion "  in  her  narratives  with 
strong  emphasis),  in  the  young  girl's  heart;  and  at  va- 
rious stages  of  her  discourse  she  introduced  fragments 
of  the  family  history  of  the  Evanses;  she  followed  the 
wanderings  of  the  different  sisters  from  Homburg  to 
Paris,  from  Paris  to  Scotland,  from  Scotland  to  the  Pun- 
jaub,  explaining  their  different  temperaments  by  hered- 
ity, which  led  her  back  into  the  obscure  and  remote  times 
of  grandfathers  and  grandmothers,  and,  having  finally 
lost  herself,  she  said :  "  What  was  I  talking  about  ? 
You  have  been  listening  to  me,  James,  what  was  I  talk- 
ing about  ?  " 

Till  the  end  of  a  week  the  discussion  was  continued. 
Aunt  Mary  tried  hard  to  reconcile  all  parties  to  their 
different  lots,  and,  as  is  usual  in  such  cases,  without 
attaining  any  result.     And  yet  Aunt   Mary  went  with 


286 

her  sister  to  see  Frank  in  his  studio.  Willy  accom- 
panied them,  and  when  they  left  he  complained  bitterly 
of  how  his  time  was  wasted.  "  Regularly  every  evening, 
just  as  I  am  sitting  down  to  work,  I  hear  them  coming 
along  the  passage.  First  of  all  they  go  to  get  their 
grog — squeak,  squeak,  pop.  I  know  it  all  so  well.  Then 
they  come  in  with  their  tumblers,  and  they  sit  down  on 
the  sofa,  and  they  begin. — I  don't  know  what  is  to  be 
done  with  dear  Sally,  unless  we  can  send  her  abroad  in 
the  care  of  some  relation.  How  is  dear  Maggie  to-day? 
I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  induce  her  to  put  on  her  frock 
to-morrow,  and  come  for  a  drive  with  me  in  the  carriage. 
What  a  trouble  young  girls  are  in  the  house,  to  be  sure. 
Then  father  begins  to  groan,  and  pulls  out  his  handker- 
chief ;  he  is  quite  alone,  he  has  no  one  he  can  depend  upon, 
then  he  laughs,  *  Well,  well,  I  suppose  it  will  be  all  the 
same  a  hundred  years  hence.'  So  it  goes  on  night  after 
night.  Here  am  I  starting  a  big  business,  and  I  haven't 
a  room  to  work  in.  Just  as  I  am  adding  up  a  long  col- 
umn of  figures,  perhaps  when  I  am  within  three  of 
the  top.  Aunt  Mary  asks  me  a  question,  and  it  has  to  be 
gone  over  again.  It  is  most  provoking,  there's  no  denying 
that  it  is  most  provoking."  Frank  agreed  that  nothing 
could  be  more  provoking  than  to  be  interrupted  when 
you  were  within  three  of  the  top  of  a  long  column  of 
figures.  On  the  following  day  he  heard  that  the  aunts 
had  left,  taking  Sally  with  them.  They  had  promised 
their  brother  to  find  a  lady  who  would  take  dear  Maggie 
under  her  care — one  who  would  soon  wean  her  from 
dressing-gowns  and  delusions,  and  restore  her  to  staid 
remarks  and  stays;  and  hopes  were  entertained  that  the 
Manor  House  would  not  have  to  be  sold  after  all. 

But  many  days  had  not  sped  when  an  event  occurred 
that  precipitated  the  five  acres  into  the  jaws  of  the 
builders.  Meason  had  sailed  for  Melbourne,  and  his 
sister,  thinking  that  some  of  Sally's  letters  might  be  of 


287 

use  to  Mr.  Brookes,  offered  to  surrender  them  upon  the 
receipt  of  a  cheque  for  one  hundred  pounds — a  very 
modest  sum,  she  urged,  considering  the  character  of  the 
letters,  most  of  which  concerned  artfully  laid  plans  to 
meet  in  the  train  going  or  coming  from  London.  Mr. 
Brookes  called  on  the  shade  of  dear  Julia,  but  he  was 
not  a  man  to  be  blackmailed — he  had  made  all  his  money 
himself,  and  on  that  point  was  immovable.  He  prepared 
to  leave  Southwick.  He  looked  fondly  on  his  glass- 
houses, and  despairingly  on  his  Friths,  Goodalls,  and 
Bouguereaus,  and  he  wondered  if  they  would  look  as 
well  in  the  new  rooms  as  in  the  old,  and  what  sum  they 
would  realise  if  he  were  to  include  them  in  the  auction; 
for  an  auction  was  necessary.  Mr.  Brookes  did  not  thus 
decide  to  abandon  his  acres  without  many  a  sob,  nor  is  it 
certain  that  the  final  step  would  have  been  taken  if  the 
gentle  builder  had  not  gilded  his  insidious  hand,  and  if 
certain  rumours  were  not  about  that  the  villas  in  the 
Southdown  Road  were  not  letting,  and  that  Southwick 
would  never  be  anything  but  what  it  was,  a  dirty  little 
village — half  suburb,  half  village. 


CHAP.  XVII. 

FRANK  was  grieved  and  troubled  at  the  sad  accounts 
that  came  to  him  of  Maggie's  health;  he  was  perplexed, 
too,  for  he  knew  himself  to  be  the  cause,  and  he  longed 
to  relieve  and  to  cure  her.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
would  give  his  life  to  go  to  her,  and  comfort  her  with 
love,  and  yet  he  was  impotent  to  make  the  least  effort 
to  attain  the  end  he  desired.  He  lay  in  the  sad  and  cruel 
memory  of  Lizzie,  his  mind  filled  with  ignoble  visions 
of  her  life  with  the  waiter,  or  with  delicate  fancies  of  her 
beauty  amid  the  summer  of  the  Thames.  He  mused  on  her 
gracious  figure  and  face,  illuminated  by  reflections  from 


288 

the  water,  set  off  by  the  bulrushes  and  floating  blossoms 
which  she  so  eagerly  coveted,  and  varied  by  the  move- 
ments of  the  waist  and  shoulders,  the  round  white  arm, 
the  trailing  scarf,  and  all  the  wistful  charm  of  the  slum- 
bering evening.  He  thought  of  the  country  light,  the 
sound  and  smell  of  cows,  of  the  sparrows  in  the  vine,  the 
cottage  looking  so  cosy  amid  the  foliage,  the  bit  of  garden 
full  of  old-fashioned  flowers,  tall  lilies,  convolvuluses, 
and  marigolds,  and  the  sitting-room  full  of  things  be- 
longing to  her — her  flowers,  her  books,  her  music,  and 
he  thought  of  this  until  his  life  was  sick  with  desire,  and 
there  grew  a  burning  pain  about  his  heart. 

A  man's  struggles  in  the  web  of  a  vile  love  are  as 
pitiful  as  those  of  a  fly  in  the  meshes  of  the  spider;  he 
crawls  to  the  edge,  but  only  to  ensnare  himself  more  com- 
pletely; he  takes  pleasure  in  ridiculing  her,  but  whether 
he  praises  or  blames,  she  remains  mistress  of  his  life;  all 
threads  are  equally  fatal,  and  each  that  should  have 
served  to  bear  him  out  of  the  trap  only  goes  to  bind  him 
faster.  A  man  in  love  suggests  the  spider's  web,  and 
when  he  is  seeking  to  escape  from  a  woman  that  will 
degrade  his  life,  the  cruelty  which  is  added  completes 
and  perfects  the  comparison.  A  man's  love  for  a  common 
woman  is  as  a  fire  in  his  vitals;  sometimes  it  seems 
quenched,  sometimes  it  is  torn  out  by  angry  hands,  but 
always  some  spark  remains;  it  contrives  to  unite  about 
its  victim,  and  in  the  end  has  its  way.  It  is  a  cancerous 
disease,  but  it  cannot  be  cut  out  like  a  cancer.  It  is  more 
deadly;  it  is  inexplicable.  All  good  things,  wealth  and 
honour,  are  forfeited  for  it;  long  years  of  toil,  trouble, 
privation  of  all  kinds,  are  willingly  accepted;  on  one  side 
all  the  sweetness  of  the  world,  on  the  other  nothing  of 
worth,  often  vice,  meanness,  ill-temper,  all  that  go  to 
make  life  a  madness  and  a  terror;  twenty,  thirty,  forty, 
perhaps  fifty  years  lie  ahead  of  him  and  her,  but  the 
years  and  their  burdens  are  not  for  his  eyes  any  more 


289 

than  the  flowers  he  elects  to  disdain.  Love  is  blind,  but 
sometimes  there  is  no  love.  How  then  shall  we  explain 
this  inexplicable  mystery;  wonderful  riddle  that  none 
shall  explain  and  that  every  generation  propounds? 

Frank  lingered  in  Southwick,  for  he  had  promised 
Willy  to  stay  with  him  when  he  went  to  live  at  the  stables 
on  the  Portslade  Road.  Summer  was  nearly  over,  hunt- 
ing would  soon  commence,  and  he  could  keep  a  couple 
of  hunters — Willy  had  calculated  it  out — for  two-and- 
twenty  shillings  a  week.  He  had  ceased  to  paint,  and 
when  he  went  to  the  studio  it  was  to  play  the  piano  or  the 
violin.  None  knew  of  Lizzie,  and  all  knew  of  Maggie. 
It  was  thought  a  little  strange  that  he  would  not  forgive 
her,  but  the  obscurity  of  the  story  of  this  point  and  the 
delight  felt  in  her  misfortune  helped  to  intensify  and 
idealise  Frank  in  the  popular  mind,  and  when  he  played 
Gounod  in  the  still  evenings  the  young  ladies  would  steal 
from  the  villas  and  wander  sentimentally  through  the 
shadows  about  the  green.  He  got  up  late  in  the  morning, 
he  lingered  over  breakfast,  and  until  it  was  time  to  go  to 
Brighton  he  lay  on  the  sofa  watching  the  cricketers  and 
the  children  playing,  shaping  resolutions,  and  striving 
with  himself  and  deceiving  himself.  A  dozen  times,  a 
hundred  times,  he  had  concluded  he  must  see  Maggie;  he 
had  decided  he  would  write  to  Lord  Mount  Rorke,  that 
he  would  go  to  Mr.  Brookes  and  settle  the  matter  off- 
hand. But,  somehow,  he  did  nothing.  His  mind  was 
absorbed  in  a  novel,  which  he  narrated  when  Willy  came 
to  see  him.  It  concerned  the  accident  that  led  a  man  not 
to  marry  the  woman  he  loved,  and  was  in  the  main  an 
incoherent  version  of  his  own  life  at  Southwick. 

"  I  don't  think  I  told  you,"  said  Willy,  "  that  they  are 
removing  the  furniture  to-day." 

"  You  don't  say  so — to-day  ?  And  where  is  your 
father?" 

"  He  is  in  London,  at  the  '  Metropole.'  " 


290 

The  young  men  walked  on  slowly  in  sUence,  and  when 
they  came  to  the  lodge  gate,  standing  wide  open,  and  saw 
the  curtainless  windows  and  the  flowerless  greenhouses, 
Willy  said :  "  It  is  very  sad  to  see  all  the  things  you 
have  known  since  you  were  a  child  sold  by  auction." 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  is.  Look  at  the  swards.  Do  they  not 
look  sad  already?  Those  beautiful  elms,  under  whose 
shade  we  have  sat,  will  be  cut  down,  and  stucco  work 
and  glass  porticoes  take  their  places.    Oh,  it  is  very  sad." 

"  My  father  never  had  any  feeling,  he  never  cared 
for  the  place.  Had  I  been  in  his  place  I  should  have 
invested  my  money  in  land  and  gone  in  for  the  county 
families." 

"  How  old  was  I  when  I  came  down  to  see  you  for  the 
first  time — fourteen,  I  think?  How  well  I  remember 
everything.  It  was  there,  look,  through  that  glade,  that 
I  saw  your  sisters  coming  to  meet  me,  they  were  then 
only  ten  or  eleven  years  old.  I  can  see  them  in  my 
mind's  eye,  quite  distinctly,  walking  towards  me,  Grace 
leading  the  way,  and  now  she  is  a  mother;  and  they 
were  all  so  dark.  I  remember  thinking  I  had  never 
seen  girls  so  dark,  they  were  like  foreigners.  And  do 
you  remember  how  your  father  scolded  Sally  for 
carrying  me  round  the  garden  on  her  back,  and  she 
used  to  wake  me  up  in  the  mornings  by  rolling  croquet 
balls  along  the  floor  into  my  room.  Oh,  what  good, 
dear  days  those  were,  and  to  think  they  are  dead  and 
gone,  and  that  the  house  is  going  to  be  pulled  down; 
and  the  garden — oh!  the  moonlights  in  that  garden, 
where  I  walked  with  the  girls,  with  scarves  round  their 
shoulders,  through  the  dreamy  light  and  shade.  We 
have  sung  songs,  and  talked  of  all  manner  of  things. 
You  don't  feel  as  I  feel." 

"  Yes,  I  do,  my  dear  fellow,  I  think  I  feel  a  great  deal 
more,  only  I  don't  talk  so  much  about  it." 

"  I  know  it  is  infinitely  sad.     This  dear   old   wall ! 


291 

There  is  Maggie's  window:  how  often  have  I  looked  up 
to  that  window  for  her  winsome  face,  and  I  shall  never 
look  again." 

"  You  are  as  bad  as  my  father.  Cheer  up ;  I  suppose 
it  will  be  all  the  same  a  hundred  years  hence." 

"  No,  no,  it  won't  be  the  same.  Why  should  all  I 
feel  and  love  be  forgotten.''  I  suppose  it  will  be  all  the 
same.     There  goes  Berkins.     I  hate  that  man." 

"  So  do  I." 

"  If  time  takes  away  pleasant  things  it  takes  unpleas- 
ant things  too,  and  those  who  live  a  hundred  years  hence 
will  not  be  troubled  with  that  fool.  True,  there  will 
be  other  Berkinses,  and  there  will  be  other  gardens,  and 
other  girls,  but  that  doesn't  make  it  the  least  less  sad  to 
see  this  garden  pass  into  bricks  and  mortar." 

Two  footmen  approached  Mr.  Berkins,  and  with  all 
solemnity  helped  him  to  take  off  his  overcoat.  He  said  a 
few  words  to  Willy,  and  was  soon  loudly  ordering  the 
workmen  who  were  taking  the  Goodalls  and  the  Friths 
from  the  walls. 

"  Take  care,  there !  Hi,  you !  get  on  the  ladder  and 
take  hold  of  this  end  of  the  picture.  There,  that's  bet- 
ter !    That's  the  way  to  do  it !  " 

"  That's  what  he  said  when  he  shot  my  bird,"  Willy 
whispered;  and  they  tried  to  laugh  as  they  went  up- 
stairs. But  their  footsteps  sounded  hollow,  and  the 
wardrobes,  where  they  had  so  often  put  their  clothes, 
stood  wide  open,  desolately  empty.  They  looked  out 
of  the  windows,  and  heard  the  voices  of  the  work-people. 

"  How  very  sad  it  is,"  said  Frank;  then,  after  a  long 
silence :  "  How  beautiful  a  scene  like  this  would  be  in 
a  book — a  young  girl  leaving  her  home,  straying  through 
the  different  rooms  musing  on  the  different  pieces  of 
furniture,  all  of  which  recall  the  past.  I  think  I  shall 
write  it.  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  you  feel;  I 
mean,  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  impresses  itself 


292 

most  on  your  mind^  and,  as  it  were,  epitomises  the  whole. 
You  have  known  all  this  since  you  were  a  child.  You 
have  played  in  these  passages;  some  spot,  some  piece  of 
furniture,  your  toys — I  suppose  they  are  gone  long  ago; 
but  something  must  stand  out  and  assert  itself  amid  con- 
flicting thoughts.    Do  tell  me." 

Willy  stroked  his  moustache.  "  Of  course  it  is  very 
sad,  but  it  is  difficult  to  put  one's  feelings  into  words. 
I  shoiild  have  to  think  about  it;  I  don't  think  I  could 
say  offhand." 

At  that  moment  there  came  a  great  crash. 

"  What  the  devil  is  that  ?  "  cried  Frank. 

"  I  hope  they  haven't  broken  the  statue  of  Flora,"  said 
Willy,  and  a  look  of  alarm  overspread  his  face.  Frank 
felt  that  if  such  were  the  case  he  should  feel  no  great 
sorrow.  They  ran  down  the  echoing  stairs.  The  work- 
men had  got  drunk  in  the  cellars  and  in  removing  the 
statue  they  had  let  it  fall,  and  it  strewed  the  floor — an 
arm  here,  a  fragment  of  drapery  there. 

"  I  knew  what  would  happen.  I  told  Mr,  Brookes  so. 
All  my  statues  are  in  marble." 

"  Come  away,  I  can't  listen  to  that  cad.  I  wouldn't 
have  had  Flora  broken  for  a  hundred  pounds.  When  I 
was  a  child  I  used  to  stand  and  look  at  her.  I  never 
could  make  out  how  she  was  made,  and  I  always  wanted 
to  look  inside.  If  you'd  like  to  know  what  I  feel  most 
sorry  for,  it  is  Flora.  She  has  stood  amid  the  flowers  in 
the  bow  window  as  long  as  I  can  remember." 

They  followed  the  high  road  by  Windmill  Inn,  where 
they  struck  across  the  Downs,  and  when  they  reached 
the  first  crest  they  could  see  the  paddocks  and  enclosures 
situated  along  the  road  in  the  valley,  and  the  private 
house  so  trim  and  middle-class.  "  Splendid  paddocks 
and  first-rate  stabling.  The  house  is  not  much.  When 
I  am  making  fifteen  per  cent,  on  my  money  I  shall  go 
in  for  a  little  architecture.     If  I  had  a  glass   I  could 


298 

show  you  Blue  Mantle's  stable.  Do  you  see  two  horses 
in  the  paddock,  right  away  on  the  left,  in  the  far  corner — 
Apple  Blossom  and  Astarte?  Apple  Blossom  is  by  See- 
Saw  out  of  Melody,  by  Stockwell  out  of  Fairy  Queen. 
Is  that  good  enough  for  you?  Astarte  is  by  Blue  Gown 
out  of  Merry  Maid,  by  Beadsman  out  of  Aurora.  What 
do  you  say  to  that.f"  " 

"  I  see  you  have  been  looking  up  the  Stud  Book." 
"  Business,  sir,  business.  And  if  I  were  to  go  in  for 
owning  a  racer  or  two,  just  look  and  see  what  a  magnifi- 
cent training  ground ;  miles  upon  miles  of  downland.  Did 
you  ever  see  a  handsomer  view.''  You  must  paint  me 
some  landscapes  for  my  dining-room." 


CHAP.  XVIII. 

"  THE  pain  is  always  here — just  over  the  heart.  You 
know  what  I  mean?  Suddenly,  when  I  am  thinking  of 
other  things,  the  sound  of  her  voice  and  the  sight  of 
her  face  comes  upon  me,  and  then  a  dead,  weary  ache. 
I  know  I  cannot  have  her,  perhaps  if  I  did  I  shouldn't 
be  wholly  glad;  but  glad  or  sorry,  good  fortune  or  ill,  I 
cannot  forget  her.  My  life  will  not  be  complete.  You 
have  felt  all  this." 

"  Never  mind  how  I  felt,  you  know  I  don't  like  talking 
about  it.  I  am  sorry  for  you.  We  all  have  our  troubles, 
I've  had  nothing  else;  I  often  think  that  if  I  were  to 
die  to-morrow  it  would  be  a  happy  release." 

"  If  I  had  never  seen  her,  or  if  I  had  married  Maggie; 
if  your  father  had  not  put  obstacles  in  the  way;  if  he 
had  not  raised  the  wretched  money  question,  which  you 
know  as  well  as  I  do  was  dragged  in  quite  unnecessarily, 
I  should  not  be  suffering  now.  For,  once  married,  I 
should  think  of  no  one  but  my  wife.  I  am  sure  I  should 
make  a  good  husband.     I  know  I  could  make  a  woman 


294 

happy ;  she'll  never  find  a  better  husband  than  she'd  have 
found  in  me.  I  don't  believe  if  they  were  to  be  made 
that  you  could  make  a  better  husband  than  I  should  be 
—I  feel  it." 

"  I  have  always  said  that  my  father  brings  all  his 
troubles  on  himself.  He  never  went  in  for  the  country 
people;  he  never  would  have  people  at  the  Manor  House. 
You  can't  shut  up  young  girls  as  if  they  were  in  a  con- 
vent, and  if  they  don't  get  the  right  people  they'll  have 
the  wrong  people.  My  father  thinks  of  nothing  but  his 
money,  and  he  can't  imderstand  that  he  might  go  for  an 
equivalent.  How  could  he  have  expected  it  to  have  turned 
in  your  case  but  as  it  did?  Lord  Mount  Rorke  was  not 
going  to  come  over  to  Southwick  to  haggle  over  pounds, 
shillings,  and  pence  with  him — not  likely.  My  sisters 
might  have  married  very  well  if  he  had  gone  the  right  way 
to  work,  and  he  would  have  been  saved  a  deal  of  worry 
and  bother.  I  always  say  that  my  father  brings  all  his 
troubles  on  himself." 

"  So  far  as  I  was  concerned  he  certainly  acted  very 
stupidly.  Ah,  if  I  had  married  Maggie  last  summer, 
how  different  my  life  would  be  now." 

"  But  you  couldn't  have  really  loved  her ;  if  you  had 
you  would  never " 

"  Yes,  I  did  love  her." 

"  I  heard  from  my  father  to-day.  Maggie  is  better. 
This  is,  of  course,  a  very  delicate  question,  but  we  have 
been  friends  so  long — would  you  like  me  to  see  if — if 
this  matter  could  be  arranged?  I  don't  like,  as  you 
know,  to  meddle  in  other  people's  affairs,  I  have  quite 
enough  to  do  to  look  after  my  own;  but  if  you  would 

like You,  of  course,  do  not  think  of  marrying  Lizzie 

Baker?" 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  Then  you  would  like  me  to  speak  to  my  father  ? 
Are  you  willing  ?    Would  you  like  to  marry  Maggie  ?  " 


295 

"  Yes,  of  course  I  should." 

"  I  don't  say  so  because  she  is  my  sister,  but  I  think 
it  is  the  best  thing  you  could  do." 

They  had  traversed  the  paddock,  and  were  close  to 
the  stables.  Picking  a  few  carrots  out  of  a  heap,  they 
opened  the  door  of  Blue  Mantle's  box.  The  horse  came 
towards  them,  his  large  eyes  glancing,  his  beautiful  crest 
arched.  His  coat  shone  like  satin,  his  legs  were  as  fine 
as  steel,  and  with  exquisite  relish  he  drew  the  carrots 
from  their  hands. 

The  perspective  of  the  hills  was  prolonged  upon  fading 
tints,  and  in  the  pale  blueness  the  mares  feeding  in  the 
paddocks  grew  strangely  solitary  and  distinct;  the  trees 
about  the  coast  towns  were  blended  in  shadow,  and  out 
of  the  first  stars  fell  a  quiet  peace. 

Their  dinner  awaited  them — a  little  dinner,  simple  and 
humble.  After  dinner,  when  the  lamp  was  brought  in, 
Willy  nursed  the  missis  with  affection  and  sincerity. 
Cissy  sat  on  Frank's  knee,  and  he  told  her  stories  and 
stroked  her  hair.  This  household  retired  at  eleven.  At 
ten  every  morning  Willy  was  busy  with  his  letters,  his 
cheques,  his  accounts,  and  in  the  afternoon  the  young  men 
walked  about  the  fields  talking  of  possible  successes  of 
the  forthcoming  breeding  season,  and  so  the  days  went. 
But  the  secret  forces  were  busy  about  Frank's  life. 
There  were  mines  and  counter-mines.  Every  fort  of 
prejudice,  every  citadel  of  reason  rested  now  upon 
foundations  that  quaked,  and  would  fall  at  the  first 
shock.  Doom  was  about  him.  As  the  silence  rustles  in 
the  deadly  hush  of  the  storm  that  brings  winter  upon  the 
forest,  he  waited  unconscious  as  a  leaf  in  the  immanence 
of  the  autumn  moment;  and  in  such  a  stillness,  awaiting 
a  change  of  soul,  he  received  a  letter  from  Lizzie.  It 
dropped  from  his  hand,  and  such  desire  to  go  as  comes 
on  swallow  and  cuckoo  came  on  him;  he  struggled  for  a 
moment,  and  was  sucked  down  in  his  passion. 


296 

The  little  village — a  summary  of  English  life  and  cus- 
tom^ a  symbol  of  the  Saxon,  the  church  steeple  pointing 
through  the  elm  trees,  the  villas  with  their  various  em- 
bellishment in  the  line  of  glass  porticoes  and  privet 
hedges,  the  General,  Mrs.  Horlock,  Messrs.  Brookes  and 
Berkins — how  complete  it  seemed,  how  individual  and 
how  synthetical — his  eyes  filled  with  tears  of  unpre- 
meditated grief.  The  leaves  were  falling,  the  hills  were 
shrouded  in  wreaths  of  floating  mist.  Some  trees  had 
been  cut  down  and  scaflFolding  had  been  reared  about  the 
Manor  House,  some  of  the  walls  had  already  fallen  re- 
vealing the  wall  paper,  the  pattern  of  which  he  could 
almost  distinguish.  He  was  going  to  the  woman  lie 
loved,  but  he  was  leaving  his  youth  behind,  and  those 
whom  he  had  known  as  children,  as  girls,  as  women;  he 
remembered  all  the  gossip,  all  the  quarrels,  all  the  to-do 
about  nothing;  and  now,  looking  on  the  beautiful  garden 
where  he  had  played  and  passioned  in  all  varying  mo- 
ments of  grief  and  glee,  he  re-lived  the  past;  and  lean- 
ing out  of  the  carriage  window  he  gazed  fondly,  and 
cried  out:    "Alas,  those  were  Spring  Days." 


THE    EXD 


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